Rangers of the North
by Morwen Tindomerel
Summary: Ecthelion of Gondor sends Men to discover the truth about the mysterious Captain Thorongil. Slightly AU with a plethora of Original Characters. Finished.
1. Bree

The village of Bree seemed small and rustic to eyes accustomed to the fine stone built cities of Gondor but it was the first settlement of Men larger than a farmstead they'd seem since passing through the Gap of Rohan and as such a most welcome sight.

The town numbered about a hundred houses clustered on the side of Bree Hill and protected by a dike and hedge pierced by a large wooden gate where it crosses the road. Fortunately the sun, though low, was still shining as they approached and the gates stood open or Hurin suspected they might have had some difficulty talking their way in.

They were only three; Hurin himself, the Lord Cemendur and their servant Rumil but they were Dunedain of Gondor. Tall, lean men with dark hair and keen, light eyes wearing bright mail beneath colorful surcoats and long swords at their sides. They were very different from the ruddy, stocky, brown haired villagers who parted for their horses, eyeing them with mingled astonishment and suspicion.

The narrow cobbled street climbed the hill to an inn-yard, the sign of a rearing pony  
hanging above the hospitably open door. A short, fat, balding Man swathed in a white apron popped out at the sound of hooves on the cobbles - and froze in his  
tracks mouth slightly agape. Hurin was becoming very tired of that reaction. True the Dunedain were growing few even in Gondor, but not so rare as to evoke this kind of slack jawed amazement in Men of other kinds.

The innkeeper recovered himself and bustled forward. "Welcome to the Prancing Pony,  
Masters. Beoman Butterbur is my name, at your service."

"I am Cemendur son of Nardil." the Councilor replied with his usual polished courtesy. "My companions are Hurin son of Beren and Rumil son of Rhudan. We will require supper, a room for the night and stabling for our horses."

"Right you are, sir. Follow me if you please. Dob, take the gentlemen's horses!"

The innkeeper proved more efficient than his appearance might have suggested. In very short order they found themselves seated at a table in the Common Room spread with a plain but plentiful meal, the object of covert stares and whisperings from the local  
patrons.

"We don't see folk of your kind often in Bree." Butterbur explained apologetically. He hesitated visibly then blurted; "You're not Elves are you?"

Rumil, caught taking an experimental sip of Bree beer, choked on it enabling Hurin to conceal his own reaction by pounding him on the back.

Cemendur kept his countenance - barely. "No. We are men of Gondor."

Butterbur looked vastly relieved, and maybe just a little disappointed. "Gondor." he echoed, then his eyes widened. "Why that's the southern kingdom isn't  
it? You're a long way from home, sir."

"Indeed we are." Cememdur agreed. "We are on a mission for our Lord. Did you know Gondor once had a sister kingdom here in the North?"

The innkeeper puffed up indignantly. "We're decent law abiding folk here in Bree, of course we've heard of the King!"

"I beg your pardon," Cemendur said quickly. "I meant no offense."

Butterbur nodded mollified. "But they're long gone the Kings of Old. The witch-folk of the North killed the last of them hundreds of years ago."

"We know. But our Lord wondered if some of the Kings' own people, Men of the West like ourselves, might still live here in the North."

This time Butterbur shook his head. "Oh no, sir. They all died with the King or went to live with the Elves. They're all gone now, the Men from the Sea." he continued with a sort of wistful pride. "Bree was here before the King came and we're still here now that  
he's gone and all his fine folk with him."

"Their chief cities were north of here, Annuminas and Fornost," Cemendur persisted, "Does no one live there now?"

"That's wild country, sir, no settled folk just Rangers."

"Rangers?" Hurin repeated curiously.

"Vagabonds," the innkeeper replied dismissively, "hunters, bandits too most likely. A nasty bunch of rogues if you ask me. There's three of them right over  
there." He turned to point to a corner table, but it was empty save for three abandoned mugs. Butterbur blinked. "That's odd. Hey Dickon!"

"Yessir, Mr. Butterbur?" a nearby serving boy called back. No - not a boy, Hurin realized with a shock as he looked more closely. A Halfling right out of fireside tales, his big, bare feet covered with curling hair.

"Didn't I see Hawkeye and the Padfoot Brothers in that corner just a moment ago?" the innkeeper asked.

"Right you are, Mr. Butterbur." the Halfling looked at the empty table and shrugged. "They seem to have gone off though."

"That's Rangers for you," the innkeeper said turning back to the Gondor men. "They come and they go, no knowing when or why."

"What do they look like, these Rangers?" Cemendur asked thoughtfully.

"Tall, dark, grim faced customers." Butterbur replied promptly. He made a face. "Sinister if you want my opinion. They behave themselves right enough here in Bree but I wouldn't  
care to meet one in the Wilds, might do anything they might."  
--

"I should like to see some of these Rangers." Cemendur mused later that evening, sitting in a chair by the window of their room.

"Bandits living wild? Thorongil couldn't have come from such people." Hurin objected from the middle bed.

"Master Butterbur did not impress me as a judge of men." the Councilor replied dryly, "He mistook us for Eldar didn't he?"

Rumil, looked up from his unpacking with a broad grin. "I'm not going to forget that remark in a hurry! Not even my dear old mother ever thought I was fair enough  
for an Elf."

"Nor does mine think so well of me - not that I disagree with either lady!" Hurin laughed. Then said to Cemendur, "We continue north then, sir?"

The Councilor nodded. "And hope to meet some of these 'Rangers'."

"Not all tall, dark men are Dunedain." Hurin pointed out.

"True." said Cemendur. "But I wish to judge for myself."


	2. Fornost Erain

The ruinous mound of Fornost Erain, Norbury of the Kings, onetime fortress and capital of the Lost Realm looked very familiar to the eyes of the Men from Minas Tirith. Like their own city it had been built in a series of circles terracing up the sides of a mountainous hill to the stump of a mighty tower at the crest. There were but five circles, for the hill of Fornost was lower and less steep than the knee of Mindolluin, yet as he followed Cemendur up the switchback road to the top between walls of crumbling  
stone Hurin found it all to easy to imagine Minas Tirith similarly thrown down and her people scattered or dead. It was an unpleasant thought and he spoke quickly to dispel  
it.

"Cemendur, don't the annals of King Earnil's time say anything about the fate of our northern kin?"

"Oh yes." the Councilor answered without turning. "They say the Last King and his following were lost in the icy seas of the north, but his sons and the greater part of their folk took refuge with the Grey Elves of the Havens. After the fall of Angmar  
Earnur, Earnil's son, offered to take the surviving Dunedain with him to Gondor but Aranarth, the Heir of Isildur and king of a ruined realm, thanked him and said any of his folk who wished might go with his blessing but as for himself he would stay in his own  
land. For though Angmar was fallen its evil lingered and the High King's sword would be needed in defense of his peoples."

"And his men stayed with him." Hurin guessed.

Cemendur smiled a little sadly. "It is written not one man or woman or child of the Northern Dunedain sailed south with the returning army. Many years later, after King Earnur was lost, Aranarth sent a letter to Mardil the Steward asserting again the claims of the Heirs of Isildur and his rights as the son of Firiel, daughter of King Ondoher. But both message and messenger were dismissed with scant courtesy. And no further word has come from the North from that day to this."

"Nine hundred years."

"Yes."

They reached the great court before the doors of the ruined tower, now little more than a heap of masonry. Hurin looked down on the descending circles of the city at a maze of roofless walls cloaked in greenery. There were trees everywhere, from gnarled old giants thrusting aside the crumbling masonry with their great roots, to slender saplings springing up between the stones. And among the familiar birch and beech, oak and elm, chestnuts and fruit trees Hurin saw others, never seen outside of protected gardens in Gondor, brought long ago from lost Numenor: Oiolaire, nessamelda, vardarianna, yavannamire and the golden flowered laurinque. And there were elanor and niprhedel and lissuin blooming among the wildflowers in the long, golden summer grass.

"They never came back here." he said softly. "But the Witch King didn't hold their city long enough to taint it with his evil."

"They did not return." Cemendur agreed, pointing, "but they may have lingered near."

Hurin followed his hand to a thread of pale smoke, against paler sky, rising from between two hills to the west of the city.

"There is a light there." Rumil agreed, staring intently. "And not just a campfire, pale lamplight. A house, maybe more than one."

The hint of pallor reflected off the distant hillside would have been invisible to any but Elvish eyes, or the keen sighted Men of Westerness.

"Master Butterbur said there were no settlements north of the road." Hurin reminded his companion.

Rumil snorted gently. "As my lord says, the innkeeper was not the best informed of men."

Then a strange voice, soft but carrying, said quietly behind them; "It would be wise to keep sharper watch. There are many dangers in the Wild."

Hurin and Rumil spun round, swords sweeping from their scabbards, and saw Cemendur standing straight and still beside their fire. Beyond him, at the edge of the light, was a Man.

He was very tall, towering even over Hurin, and dressed in worn, dark green leathers beneath a stained and much mended cloak, a gigantic bow slung over his shoulder. A tangle of dark, unkempt hair framed a face that might have graced a statue in the Hall of the Kings and the three Gondor Men were transfixed by a pair of clear grey eyes holding a  
piercing light.

It was Cemendur who got his breath back first. "Welcome and well met. I am Cemendur son of Nardil, this is Hurin, Beren's son, and Rumil son of Rhudan. We come from Gondor seeking our long lost kindred of the North."

"I am called Hawkeye." the stranger replied, "My nephews are known as the Padfoot Brothers." for the first time Hurin noticed two other men behind and to either side of Hawkeye, almost as tall and still as the shadows that cloaked them. "But there are no Men like you here in the Wild." the Ranger continued. "Only the farmers of Bree and the Angle, and Rangers."

Even Cemendur could only stare at this Man, plainly Dunedain and of High Blood, coolly denying his own existence.

"They lived in the ruined city long ago." Hurin managed after a stunned moment.

"Deadmen's Dike? That's haunted land, we don't go here." Hawkeye shrugged his great shoulders. "The folk who built it are long dead and gone. We know nothing of them."

"It was the city of the Kings of Old." Cemendur told him.

Hawkeye shook his head decisively. "I never heard of any king. This is the Wild."

Hurin and Rumil exchanged an appalled look. Was it really possible for Dunedain to fall so low as to forget their own origins? Perhaps, Hurin had to admit to himself, if they'd been decimated and interbred with lesser Men. Back home in Gondor he had seen families of mostly Northman or Mountain blood occasionally produce a child of the pure Dunedain type. Could this Hawkeye be such a one? With the blood of Westerness in his  
veins but none of its Lore?

"Go home, Master Cemendur," the Ranger said firmly, almost commandingly. "you'll find none of your kinfolk here."

"You are certain of that?" the Councilor's back was to Hurin but he could imagine the eybrow rising along with the questioning inflection of his voice

"I am a Ranger, we know the Wild and all its dwellers." Hawkeye answered flatly. "There are no Kings or fine lords such as yourselves in the North."

"Yet there is a houseplace west of here." Rumil ventured. "We saw its smoke this afternoon and now there's lamplight on those same hills."

"Some other Ranger's cabin." Hawkeye said dismissively. "To close to haunted ground for my taste. As is this camp of yours. You should move."

"We are strangers in this land and ready to be guided." Cemendur replied conciliatorily.

"That would be wise." the Ranger said dryly.

"But late." snapped the shadowy figure on Hawkeye's right. "Ware, Sergollim!"

What?

The answer sprang into the firelight, a stocky dwarvish figure clothed in stiff garments the color of old blood, beardless and hairless with iron teeth gnashing and glinting in its  
head and long iron talons tipping bony claws. The creature fell, a long black arrow in its chest, but was followed by a rush of similar things. Three more were dropped by the Rangers' arrows but then they were upon them and it was hand to hand.

The creatures fought with teeth and talons making Hurin grateful for his good mail coat, but he'd battled Orcs and worse on the Marches of Mordor and so was somewhat inured  
to horrors. There were a few moments of hideous confusion; gnashing iron fangs, grasping iron claws and black blood fountaining beneath his blade. Then, as suddenly  
as it had begun it was over with dozens of the creatures lying in headless, handless heaps and the six Men back to back in a circle with the sinking fire at its center.

Hurin's experienced eye noted the swords in the Rangers' hands, similar in kind to those of the Gondor, with long fluted double edged blades, but slimmer and lighter. Definitely not hunters' weapons.

"They will come again and in greater numbers." Hawkeye snapped. "Make for the city, they cannot enter there."

"The horses!" Rumil cried, as if he'd just remembered them.

"They'll be all right," one of the Padfoot Brothers reassured him. "Sergollim have no interest in beasts. It's Mens' blood they thirst for. And it's not the time of year for wolves."

"Forget the animals," the other Brother said sharply, "and run!"

They had almost reached the walls of Fornost when one of the Padfoot Brothers again cried "Ware!"

Hurin checked and turned to see Sergollim pouring over the hill crest behind like blood from an open wound.

"Keep moving!" Hawkeye ordered, unslinging his great bow. Hesitating, reluctant to leave one man to face that hord alone, Hurin noticed how the pale starlight slid over the weapon like water and realized it was one of the legendary steel Numenorean War Bows, seldom used these days for lack of men with the height and strength to draw them.

Hawkeye, however, had both, and no little skill. The Gondor Men watched in awe as he fired an almost continuous stream of black arrows into the oncoming host, supported by his nephews' hunting bows.

The Sergollim faltered, then stumbling over their own dead, began to retreat back over the hill. And Hurin remembered that the foes of Numenor had feared the great  
bowmen even more than the knights with their bright swords.

"I said go!" Hawkeye repeated with an angry sideways flash of those bright eyes.

One of the Padfoot Brothers slung his bow and seized Hurin with one hand, and Cemendur with the other. "Do as he says."

Hurin risked one last look behind, to assure himself the creatures were truly in retreat, and  
obeyed. They ran the last few dozens of yards and climbed a slide of stones to to a gap in the lowest curtain wall.

You're sure they can't enter the city?" He asked the Padfoot Brother who'd herded them.

The other nodded. "Certain. Though we're not sure why. Perhaps some virtue of the Elven trees. They say not even the Witch King himself dared to pass the gates of Fornost. He sent in his Hill Men to burn and loot while he lay outside, well away from even the  
shadow of its walls.

Looking back through the gap Hurin saw the other two Rangers retreating at a measured pace, backwards, their faces still towards the hill behind which the last living Sergollim had vanished.

"They'll come pouring out again the minute Uncle's back is turned." the Brother explained almost casually. "But not while he's facing them with Belthronding in his hand!"

Hurin went to join his companions, dropping down between them onto a carpet of sweet scented golden petals beneath a mighty laurinque tree. Then it struck him. "Cemendur, Hawkeye claimed to know nothing of the history of Fornost yet his nephew there was just  
telling me tales of its fall."

He couldn't see the Councilor's wry smile but heard it in his voice. "Hawkeye was lying, Hurinya, and not very well. But then I doubt he's had much practice."

"I noticed those swords, and that bow." Rumil put in.

Cemendur nodded. "And I noticed despite his rustic accent Hawkeye pronounced my name correctly, and that his nephew used a Sindarin word for those creatures."

"But why try to deceive us?" Hurin asked bewildered.

"That we must discover." said the Councilor.


	3. The Rangers

Normally fighting a common foe creates a certain camaraderie, but not this time. Hurin became aware of a definite constraint between his party and their hosts as soon as they awoke the next morning.

The Rangers undoubtedly realized they'd given themselves away but refused to acknowledge the fact. and Cemendur seemed reluctant to challenge Hawkeye directly.

Not that Hurin blamed him. Seen by full daylight the elder Ranger was even more formidably regal than he'd seemed the night before. Few Dunedain in these degenerate  
days reached what had once been the standard height of two ranga, Hurin himself being one of the exceptions, but Hawkeye stood at least a handspan above it. Many Men of the West have grey eyes but Hurin seen only one other pair with that quicksilver gleam, like a flicker of starlight within. Hawkeye's worn clothing and the grime of a long sojourn in the Wild did nothing to detract from a truly kingly presence.

The nephews, seen clearly for the first time, were obviously twins - as alike as two stars - shorter than their uncle though still more than 'man-high' with hair of the true raven black and their uncle's bright piercing eyes. Swift and silent in their movements they shared an elusive quality; creatures of the Wild that could be glimpsed but not grasped.

The three Rangers went about the mundane tasks of building a fire and cooking breakfast in dexterous, efficient silence. Hurin and Rumil stood about uncomfortably and tried not to get in the way. Cemendur sat on a stone block watching pensively.

By the time they'd reached the washing-up stage the silence had been unbroken for more than two hours and passed from uncomfortable to unbearable. Then, finally, Hawkeye broke it.

"We will collect the rest of your gear from your camp and then find your horses."

Hurin nearly dropped the folded cloak he was holding and Rumil did drop the stick of wood he'd been carrying around all morning. Cemendur leveled a steady look at the elder Ranger. "My Lord, I have not told you all our errand here in the North." Hawkeye's brows quirked at the form of address but said nothing. The Councilor continued; "We are servants of the Steward of Gondor. He has also in his service a great captain of war we call Thorongil. He came to us from Rohan but he is not of the Rohirrim but one of our own people, a Man of Westerness, though not of Gondor. There are few places  
in Middle Earth where Men of our kind have dwelt; Gondor, Umbar and here in the Lost Realm of Arnor. Our Lord has sent us to find Thorongil's people if we can  
and make alliance with them."

"Why not simply ask this Thorongil where he comes from?" Hawkeye asked.

"He will not answer. No more than he will give us his true name."

"Then no doubt he has his reasons." Hawkeye knelt to quench the fire with a dipperful of water from the crumbling well in the corner of this former garden. "I know no 'Thorongil' and I have already told you there are none of your kin here in the Wild."

"The Dunedain have ever made poor liars." Cemendur retorted mildly.

Hawkeye's head came up, eyes narrowed at the challenge. Hurin held his breath then let it out in an audible gust of relief when the Ranger smiled wryly, transforming his grim countenance. "A sore weakness which we have been unable to amend." he admitted, no longer in the rustic accent of Bree but in speech as pure as any Hurin had heard in the  
Court of the Tree. "Yet it was not all lies. I told you there are neither kings nor lords here in the North and that is plain truth."

"There are many years of neglect to make amends for." Cemendur returned seriously. "It would be a kindness to accept our help."

But Hawkeye shook his head. "No." He finished spreading earth over the ashes of the fire and rose from his knees to tower above them, stern and commanding as a King of the Kings of Men of old . "It is not pride that has held us silent all these years but prudence. We have neither armies nor fortresses now. To be secret and forgotten is our only defense. Do not seek to strip it from us."

"But there's no need to hide any longer!" Hurin blurted suddenly. "Come back with us to Minas Tirith, a hundred or a thousand such as Thorongil would be a strength beyond our wildest hopes."

The bright, unnerving eyes swerved from Cemendur's face to Huri's. He gulped and withstood their gaze as best he could. "If we could be of aid to you we would." Hawkeye  
said quite gently. "Never think we hold old grudges above our common blood and common danger. But a Shadow lies on the North as well. For nearly a thousand years  
we Rangers have guarded our simple folk from the creatures of Angmar. We cannot abandon them."

"They do not know what you do for them." Cemendur said softly. And Hurin, remembering what the Innkeeper Butterbur had had to say about Rangers knew he was  
right.

"Nor do we wish them too." said one of the nephews.

"They have courage enough at need, Men and Halflings both," continued the other. "but they are not a folk for war. Better they should enjoy their peace and live without fear."

"Long ago Elendil promised their fathers' fathers his protection in exchange for their allegiance." Hawkeye finished. "His heirs will keep that promise as long as we have the strength to do so."

Elendil's Heirs? The words shivered over Hurin's skin and he stared at the Ranger in wild surmise. Was he saying the line of Kings had somehow survived here in the North, that he himself was of that blood?

"Come, we have horses to find." Hawkeye changed the subject abruptly, as if he'd said more than he'd intended, and given away what he would conceal..  
--

Notes:  
'Ranga' was a Numenorean unit of measurement  
equivalent to three feet two inches or just under a  
meter. Two ranga were colloquially known as 'man high'  
meaning the average height of Numenorean men was six  
foot four. By the time of the WR the average height of  
the Dunedain of Gondor had become somewhat shorter,  
probably about six feet. Hurin, at six four, is known  
as 'the Tall'. Hawkeye is about four inches short of seven feet and  
the Padfoot Brothers are six five or six six.


	4. The Holding

Their camp was much as they'd left it; burnt out fire, neatly piled saddle bags and spread blankets. There was no trace of the Sergollim.

"What happened to the bodies?" Hurin wondered.

One of the Padfoot Brothers grimaced. "Believe me, you don't want to know."

Hawkeye cast about in ever widening circles searching for horse sign. "Here they are, heading south."

"Probably run all the way back to Bree." Rumil said gloomily, rolling blankets.

The Ranger shook his head. "More likely they'd have made for Gwathlad once they got over their panic."

"Your 'Ranger Cabin'?" Cemendur smiled and got a wry, sidelong glance in reply.

One of the nephews said to Hurin; "We never would have shown ourselves if you hadn't been making right for the holding." adding to his uncle. "If the horses did come to  
Gwathlad its folk will be out looking for their riders."

"Back tracking the horses." Hawkeye agreed. "It may take them some time to find the camp and our trail to the city. Let us save them the effort."

Some little time and many miles later the party was unexpectedly hailed. "Welcome and well met, Captain. You are far north of your Wardenship."

Hurin was growing accustomed to Dunedain popping unexpectedly out of the downs but this one was a woman, which was even more startling. She was dressed much the same as  
Hawkeye and his nephews in hunters' green leathers with her dark hair braided and coiled around her head, and was armed with a short bow and a long knife.

"Blame our kinsmen here, I have followed them all the way from Bree." the elder Ranger answered, unstartled..

The woman gave the three Gondor Men a curious look out of pale, winter blue eyes. "They were your mounts then? We have been looking for their riders since dawn." her eyes went back to Hawkeye. "the Chief chanced to be at Gwathlad when the horses were found. He has delayed his journey in hope of meeting their owners."

It was clear from Hawkeye's stony face he did not entirely approve of this decision and Cemendur visibly pricked up his ears.

The woman turned back to the strangers. "I am Laebeth daughter of Felagund son of Baragorm the Master of Gwathlad," she said formally, "be welcome to our land."

Laebeth led them by winding ways to a grassy bank between two downs pierced by a wooden gate that opened before them without knock or call.

Hurin saw at once why the holding had been named 'Shadow Vale'. Gwathlad stood at the head of a long, narrow valley darkened by the tall hills that hemmed it round. Grassy berms had turned the vale into a secure pasturage for the many sheep and cattle grazing contentedly on the late summer grass.

There were several horses as well of the Numenorean breed, tall and strong but shaggy coated. The three sleek, well curried mounts of the Gondor Men stood out from among them just as their elegantly dressed masters contrasted with the green and brown garbed Rangers. Hurin was beginning to suspect the unkempt look of Men and horses  
alike was deliberate, a not entirely successful effort to hide the breeding of both.

The Gondor horses trotted right up to Rumil and it took him some time to greet them properly, checking legs and hooves for injury crooning idiotically all the while. If Hurin hadn't known better he'd have sworn Rumil was part Rohirrim because his passion for the  
beasts.

The rest of them waited with what patience they could muster until the groom was finally  
satisfied his charges had come to no harm and at last were able to continue along the valley floor to a steep path cut into a hillside climbing up to the holding on a terrace just below the crest. Enclosed by grass grown earthen walls with roofs of turf showing above them, Gwathlad had obviously been built with an eye to concealment as well as defense,  
and by somebody who knew his business.

They entered through a tunnel-like gateway cut between wall and hill and found themselves in a cobbled courtyard surrounded by low buildings of dressed stone, probably salvaged from the ruins of Fornost. The encircling walls were faced with the  
same material and an oiolaire tree drooped its boughs of dark, sweet scented leaves over the gate arch. There was a large house on the opposite side of the yard and various outbuildings ranged around the walls. Doors had been cut into the side of the hill  
showing part of the holding was underground.

Laebeth led them across the courtyard and through the open door of the house into a pleasant hall smelling of the chopped heather strewn over the flagstone floor. There was a fireplace at either end with plain but serviceable chairs and settles drawn up before the cold hearths, and benches along the back wall. Sunlight fell freely through the open door and three windows and colorful wall hangings and seat cushions brightened and softened what might otherwise have been a stark interior, all cold stone and dark wood. It  
might have been the main room of any small holding in Anorien or Lebennin and was the most homelike and comfortable place Hurin had seen in months.

There were two women seated before the farther fireplace, one spinning with a hand distaff the other carding wool, both in plain gowns of fawn and soft grey. A man dressed as a Ranger sat with them, rising as Hurin and his group entered.

Hawkeye and his nephews had reminded Hurin at once of Thorongil but the likeness was mostly a matter of similar coloring and bearing. This man was even more like the Captain than the Lord Denethor, enough like to be father or brother.

Hurin and Rumil could only gape but Cemendur, with his characteristic presence of mind, stepped forward and bowed. "Lord, I am Cemendur son of Nardil sent by the Steward of Gondor with my companions to seek out our long sundered kin of the North. And now that we have found you I am loath to simply ride away as I have been bid."

Grey eyes quick with that now familiar silvery light passed over Cemendur's shoulder to share a long communicative look with Hawkeye, then returned to the Councilor. "I am Armegil son of Arador, Chief of the Rangers of the North." he said at last in a soft,  
shockingly familiar voice. "And I will hear what you have to say, Son of Nardil."


	5. Isildur's Heir

So they rode north instead of south in company with Armegil, two attendant Rangers, Hawkeye and his nephews on borrowed horses and, to Hurin's surprise, the girl Laebeth.

Cutting Northeast from Gwathlad they soon encountered the grass grown remains of a stone road winding its way between the downs. They followed this for the rest of the day coming at dusk to a gap between two hills guarded by tall stone pillars carved in the form of helmed and cloaked knights with swords set upright before them. Passing between these they entered a narrow way between high earthen walls, its end guarded by a second pair of statues in the form of maidens holding the welcome cup.

A wide valley opened before them, hemmed in by steep cliffs to the south and east, the long slopes of the downs to the north and west clothed by trees. The different hues and shapes of their leaves showed like kinds planted in orderly rows, orchards rather than  
woodland.

The floor of the valley, like the vale of Gwathlad, provided pasturage for cattle and sheep and many horses but the fragmentary remains of stone pavements, foundations, statues and fountains showed it had once, long ago, been a garden pleasance. Overlooking the vale from the top of a northern hill was the stronghold itself.

Percipitous slopes rose to a grassy dike topped by a drystone wall and wooden battlements. Above this there was a second massive wall, smooth as glass and built of gigantic blocks of pale stone. It circled the hill crest like a silver crown on the head of a king.

A horn sounded from the hills behind them and an answer came like an echo from the walls of the fortress. The great iron bound gates of the lower circle stood open by the time they reached them. Inside a cobbled way ran between rows of half timbered buildings; stables, storehouses, workshops and barracks. The air sounded with the rhythmic ring of a smith's hammer and carried an aroma that reminded Hurin of the inn at Bree.

There were a number of Men in evidence. Tall, dark haired, keen eyed Dunedain, all in worn Ranger green, either moving briskly about their business or resting on benches  
sheltered by the overhanging eaves of the buildings. Hurin was struck first by their silence. There was no loud talk or laughter, none of the cheerful boisterousness he remembered from his own experience of military encampments. And secondly by  
their watchfulness, every eye turned to the little cavalcade and fixed there, bright and  
unblinking. And finally by the fact that many of them seemed to be breathing smoke.

Almost all the seated Men had between their teeth a long stem of wood or bone with a bowl at the end and were surrounded by drifting clouds of pleasantly scented grey-white smoke. Hurin had seen other Men in Bree and along the South Road similiarly occupied but it gave him a faint shock to see Men of his own kind engaged in so odd and barbaric a practice.

The party dismounted and Men came forward to take the horses. Rumil made as if to follow them but Cemendur shook his head and the groom fell reluctantly in beside Hurin. The two Rangers who'd accompanied Armegil melted away among their fellows so only seven Men and one Woman climbed the long curving stone stair to the upper gate.

Suddenly Hurin caught at the Councillor's arm with a hissed, "Look!"

The keystone of the arch was carved with seven small stars above one larger with many rays: the emblem of Elendil and the Northern Kingdom. And below were four tengwar letters RNRTH.

"Aranarth." Cemendur breathed.

The Northerners must have heard but said nothing.

The party passed through a short, dark tunnel to emerge into a different world. Instead of the monolithic stone keep and outbuildings Hurin had expected he saw a rambling country villa built on terraced levels around garden courts lit by crystal lamps, sweet  
scented with flowers and sounding with the music of fountains. Only the frowning walls and a stumpy watchtower savored of the fortress. The main block of the building was directly in front of them, golden light streaming from the open double doors.

The three Gondor Men exchanged slightly dazed looks then followed their hosts into a candlelit great hall. Its walls were covered with frescoes of flowering orchards and sunny gardens. It was floored with many hued marbles inlaid in intricate, interlacing designs reflected by the colored traceries of the vaulted ceiling high overhead.

A long table of some burnished, red-golden wood stood on the dais at the far end of the hall surrounded by high backed chairs. Men clad in grey and white were taking down trestle tables and benches and carrying them away.

Laebeth vanished silently through one of the several doors opening off the hall. Hawkeye and his nephews through another. Armegil took a lit taper from a nearby candle stand and opened a third door. He led the Gondor men a short way down a dark, colonnaded walkway to a spacious guest chamber and would have lit the candles for them had Rumil not taken the taper from his hand with respectful firmness to do it instead.

Armegil's eyes glinted with amusement but all he said was; "The evening meal is over as you saw, I will have food brought. If you need anything else you have but to ask. Good night."

Scarcely had the door closed behind him when Hurin turned to the Councilor in a bedazzlement of awe. "Cemendur he's -"

"Yes." the old man sank into a chair looking every one of his one hundred and three years. "It would seem an Heir of Isildur still lives."

"And what are we to do about it?" Rumil wondered. And neither of his lords could give him an answer.

"Bringing them here was a mistake." the man Hurin knew as Hawkeye said bluntly as the Chief of the Rangers entered the small room he used as office and workplace.

Armegil sat down in the high backed chair behind his writing table and looked across it at his sister's son. "They've already seen and guessed too much. Our only choice now is to make them understand why we have chosen this path and why we must be allowed to  
continue on it."

"Showing yourself to them was a mistake if you like." offered the third man in the room. "Once they laid eyes on you, Belecthor, the truth was as good as out."

"I know, Borondir." he answered wearily, rubbing his eyes. "But it was either that or let them walk into Gwathlad for Dame Bronwen to deal with."

"It's a pity it wasn't some of my men they met. We could have turned them around right enough and none the wiser." said Borondir.

Armegil and Belecthor nodded rueful agreement. Borondir and his people were not Dunedain but Men of Rhudaur, descendants of those Hill-Men who'd sworn fealty to the Kings and held true to that oath for nearly three thousand years. They were tall Men, like the Dunedain, but broad and burly in build. Dark of hair and eye with swarthy skins.

"If we'd had some warning, a chance to prepare a reception for them." Belecthor said helplessly.

"It worries me that we did not." Borondir frowned. "Surely the Dunadan would have tried to get word to us?"

"If he knew of it, which I doubt." Armegil replied, leaning back in his chair as he filled his pipe. "This is Ecthelion's doing, though why this sudden curiosity about 'Thorongil's' origins after nineteen years in Gondor's service..." he trailed off pensively.

"Could Ecthelion suspect the truth?" Belecthor worried.

"If he does not, then his Lord Cemendur surely does - now." Armegil returned dryly.

A moment's silence was broken by Borondir. "Is the Dunadan in danger?"

"Not from Ecthelion, if I read his men aright." the Chief Ranger answered slowly. "But from others - perhaps." and all three men shared a troubled look.


	6. Fortress of the Kings

The villa lost its dreamlike quality when seen by the prosaic light of day. The merciless morning sun showed the tracks worn by generations of feet into tesselated floors, the missing tiles and the cracked and faded frescoes. Elegant furnishings of earlier times, crafted of fine woods and inlaid with precious stones and metals, were outnumbered by later pieces of humbler provenance, though shapely and well made. The rare trees and flowers that filled the gardens were overgrown and untended, the statues and many  
fountains chipped and broken.

It all reminded Hurin of the down-at-heel villas that could still be found in Anorien and Lebennin but on a grander scale for this had been a house for Kings - and was still home to those Kings' descendants. The massive walls and the presence of the silent, watchful  
Rangers bespoke a people under siege. As was Gondor.

"Remember what Hawkeye said about our common blood and common foe. Surely there's some way we can help each other." Hurin argued as he and Cemendur walked together in the ruinous gardens.

"It would be easier if their Chief were not of the blood of the Kings." the Councilor replied grimly. "The Heirs of Isildur can scarcely be expected to serve under Men of lesser lineage."

"Thorongil does." Hurin countered. "He must be close kin to Armegil, perhaps even his son, yet he has sworn himself to Lord Ecthelion..." his voice trailed off as the irony of it registered.

Cemendur nodded. "You see? even if they are willing to forgo their rights - and why should they be? - how can we ever forget who they are?"

Hurin swallowed, the Councilor was right. The mere presence of an Heir to the Kings, whether he pressed his claim or not, would be a constant rub to the conscience of Gondor. A reproach to her people and especially to the House of the Stewards. Yet to accept the Heir of Isildur as king would mean that Pelendur and Mardil had been wrong to withhold the crown from Arvedui and Aranarth and that the Ruling Stewards, who included many great and noble men, had been nothing more than usurpers.

Hurin was himself of the line of Mardil, son of Emeldir Ecthelion's elder daughter, and third in line after Denethor and his small son Boromir for the Stewards' chair. His ancestors had ruled Gondor honorably and well for nearly a thousand years. To put  
such a shame upon them was unthinkable, and yet... "What are we going to do?"

"I do not know, Hurinya, I do not know."

The two Gondor men were sitting in an arbor, turned into a green cave by the vines and brambles that covered and almost overwhelmed it, when Hawkeye found them. He had  
managed to look notably royal in rough Ranger garb, well begrimed with travel, but now, dressed in black velvet and forest green tunic patterned with leaves of gold, he seemed a veritable vision of the majesty of the Kings of Men of old. The sight brought Hurin and Cemendur to their feet staring.

The looks on their faces made Hawkeye laugh out loud, softening and warming that grim, sculpted countenance in a way that reminded Hurin sharply of Thorongil and the startling effect of his rare smile. The Gondor Men recollected themselves enough to bow which seemed to amuse the Ranger even more.

"The Chief will speak to you now if you will." he said. Wordless Cemendur bowed assent.

Hawkeye led them back into the Hall and opened the door Laebeth had gone through the night before. They followed him into a square antechamber, lined with doors and carved stone benches, and then into what was clearly a throne room, though one less like the chill black and white stone splendors of the Hall of the Kings back home could scarcely be imagined.

It was about half the size of the Great Hall, the long walls decorated with frescoes of the rolling seas both in sunlight and in storm. Floor and high vaulted ceiling were adorned with intricate, richly hued traceries and a shaft of light fell through a high window upon a silver star set above an ivory throne, flanked by two lower seats for the Consort and the Heir. But no, common silver never sparkled so, it must be true silver - mithril. Hawkeye walked briskly the length of the room to a discrete door behind the dais. As he passed the thrones Hurin saw they were thick with dust, unused for years, perhaps centuries.

Armegil awaited them in a small, plain, workaday room with maps pinned to the walls and light streaming through a many paned window embrasure. The Chief Ranger stood behind a littered writing table looking stunningly like Thorongil in grey and silver, the hues the Captain usually wore. The colors, Hurin suddenly remembered, of the Kings of  
Old.

Beside Armegil stood a swarthy, bearlike Man clad in brown and scarlet who glowered at the Gondor Men from beneath beetled brows. Definitely not Dunedain - nor very friendly.

The Chief acknowledged their bows and sat in his high backed chair gesturing for them to take the low seats before his table. The bearlike Man settled himself on the bench under the window.

"There were things you wished to say to me, Lord Cemendur. I am prepared to listen."

"Hurin and I have already said something of these matters to -" Cemendur hesitated, turning to Hawkeye, "Forgive me, my Lord, I know not what to call you."

"He is Belecthor son of Belegorn," Armegil answered with a hint of a smile. "My sister-son and Captain of the South." He nodded towards the large, frowning Man in the window bay. "And this is Borondir son of Borthandir, Lord of the Marches of Rhudaur and Captain of the East."

"And you are Isildur's Heir." said Cemendur flatly. '

It was not a question but Armegil shook his head. "No. I am but the next in blood, his chief lieutenant and Captain of the North. Aragorn, son of my brother Arathorn, is the  
Heir of Isildur. I stand in his place in his absence."

Cemendur's face went blank with shock and shiver down Hurin's spine. Thorongil, it had  
to be, but why in the name of all the Valar would Isildur's Heir come to Gondor in disguise to take service as a common soldier?

There was a soft rap on the door and it opened to admit a little girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, with long black hair falling straight down her back over a soft grey gown. She held carefully in both hands a large silver tray with five matching goblets. The sunlight reflected off the metal casting a bright light onto her small, serious, delicate face with  
great grey eyes that shone brighter than the silver.

'Fair as a Elven child.' Hurin had heard a city matron say once about his younger sister. It was a common compliment but now he was seeing the reality. For a moment he wondered wildly if perhaps she was an Elf but Armegil quickly disabused him of that idea.

"My daughter Niphredil."

The child placed her burden on the table before her father and the woman at her heels stepped forward, a tall silver wine pitcher in her hands. It took Hurin a startled second glance to recognize Laebeth, hair unbraided and rippling down her back, dressed in a pale blue gown that matched her eyes. She caught him staring and nodded politely with just a  
hint of a dimple.

The little girl gazed fixedly first at Hurin and then at Cemendur as Laebeth poured the wine and passed it round. Then she took the child firmly by the shoulders, turned her around and steered her out of the room.

"She is very beautiful." Cemendur said sincerely after the door had shut behind them.

"And very willful." was the father's rueful answer. "The two tend to go together in our House."

"Indeed they do!" Belecthor agreed fervently.

Borondir laughed heartily and a quick smile flashed across Armegil's face like a sunburst before it settled again into the grim lines etched by hardship and care.

"Forgive the interruption, my Lord. You were saying?"

The Councilor swallowed and forged on. "I told the Lord Belecthor how a great Captain had come to us out of Rohan but was clearly one of our own people though not of Gondor. We called him Thorongil as he has ever refused to give us either his own true name or that of his homeland."

"For good reason." quietly from Armegil.

"For reasons that seemed good to him." Cemendur conceded. "My lord, Gondor is hard pressed. The Lord Aragorn was proof other Men of our kind still dwelt somewhere in Middle Earth. The Lost Realm was the obvious place to look for them."

"And now you have found us." said Armegil expressionlessly.

"And seen you are also in peril." Hurin broke in, stomping all over Cemendur's careful diplomacy. "Hawkeye - my Lord Belecthor - has told us why you hide yourselves. True a few thousands cannot challenge the might of Mordor but allied with such strength as  
we still have in Gondor surely together we can accomplish what neither can alone!"

Again Armegil shook his head. "The time when our people could overcome the Shadow by force of arms is long past. Even united we can no longer match the numbers of his vassals."

"Do you bid us despair then, Lord?" flatly from Cemendur as Hurin bit his lip.

"Never that!" his answer came quick and emphatic. "Our part is to hold doom at bay as long as we may. But it is by other, smaller hands, Sauron will be brought low."

"I - do not understand, my Lord." Cemendur said uncertainly.

Another brief, flashing smile. "Nor do I. And what I guess I may not speak of." Armegil turned the subject. "You are somewhat mistaken, my Lord Hurin, we were not driven to this life, we chose it." he took a deliberate sip of his wine and continued: "You know of course of the last war in which Angmar was overthrown with the aid of Gondor. But that was not the first time the Witch King had been defeated. Twice before we broke his  
power and drove him from the North, at great cost, only to see him rise again in even greater strength even as our own diminished."

Hurin shivered again. Gondor was only to well acquainted with such profitless victories.

"It was King Araphant who discovered who our enemy in truth was; the Chief of the Nazgul greatest of Sauron's servants. And realized the Dark Lord himself was behind our troubles, and yours in Gondor as well." Armegil continued dispassionately. "And so he made alliance with King Ondoher, sealed by the marriage of our Prince Arvedui to your Princess Firiel, against the evil day when Angmar would rise again - with what result you know."

Indeed they did.

"We might have rebuilt after that last victory, as after the two before it. But Aranarth realized to do so would be to invite another attack, and another, and another, until at last we were utterly destroyed." Armegil smiled again, grimly, with an edge of steel. "Sauron does not forget the hand that cut the Ring from his finger and we who are Isildur's Heirs account his enmity our greatest glory.

"Thus Aranarth chose to let the Witch King believe he had succeeded in the task his Master had set him. He built this fastness, and others, and our people went into hiding becoming Rangers of the Wild, hunting the servants of the Enemy and standing guard  
over the simple folk of the North."

He took another sip of wine and resumed quietly. "It is a hard life and our numbers dwindle as the years lengthen, yet for all that we are still far more than a few thousands. But to declare ourselves openly would only bring ruin upon us and those whom we guard. And an alliance with Gondor would call the full fury of Mordor down upon us both. This we will not risk but we do not forget our kinship or our duty under the treaty  
Araphant made. Aragorn is not the first Heir of Isildur to serve Gondor."

Hurin and Cemendur could only stare at him.

"Arangil, brother of Aranarth, led a company of Rangers south when the Nazgul attacked Minas Ithil. And later Arminas, son of our Seventh Chieftain, served Denethor and Boromir in the Morgul wars. But since his time we have been too hard pressed ourselves  
to send aid to Gondor. Until Aragorn chose to go alone more than twenty years ago."

"Your generosity shames us." Cemendur said heavily.

Armegil shook his head. "We but keep our sworn word, as did King Earnil. In return we ask only that you keep our secret, for all our sakes."

The Councilor bowed his head. "As you wish."

Borondir grunted. "That may be all the Dunedain ask but the Men of Rhudaur would ask one more thing; send us back our Chieftain! He has been away from his people long enough and too long."

"I do not doubt Aragorn will return when he may." Armegil told him. He glanced at Cemendur. "I trust no rub will be put in his way?"

"We must tell our Lord what we have learned." the Councilor replied. "But I promise you he will do the Lord Aragorn no harm, nor seek to stay him when he chooses to leave us."

Armegil and Belecthor accepted that assurance but Borondir looked openly skeptical. Hurin would have liked to be insulted, but he had to admit to himself that the Man's doubts were justified. The Stewards had not dealt justly with the Heirs of Isildur and they all knew it.

Armegil rose and the others with him. Cemendur essayed a pallid smile. "It seems we have come a long way to little purpose."

The Prince of the North looked at him straight, the light in his eyes very bright. "We are matched against a foe beyond our strength, but such has ever been the fate of Men. So fight on, and hold to hope, and remember you do not fight alone."


	7. The Lost Realm

"Prince Armegil has advised us to return by way of the High Pass over the Misty Mountains rather than the southern way by which we came." Hurin told his companion as they strolled along one of the villa's many cloistered walks.

The other, the more talkative of the two Padfoot Brothers, nodded. "That would be wise. The Old South Road is becoming dangerous. Nobody patrols the Enedwaith anymore and the Dunlendings are notoriously unfriendly to Dunedain." he gave a quick smile. "Not that our ancestors didn't give them reason enough to be so." and glanced sidelong at Hurin. "But no doubt you noticed all this yourself."

"The journey was not uneventful." he conceded dryly. "We nearly lost Rumil at the fording of the Gwathlo, but after that the going became easier."

"After that you had entered Ranger territory. The Red Lands of Cardolan are patrolled. You were under our eye and our guard from the moment you crossed at Tharbad."

Hurin blinked. "We saw nothing."

His companion smiled a little smugly. "Nothing is what you may expect to see when Rangers are tracking you. But you traveled too quickly for our people to send word ahead of your coming. Uncle was taken quite by surprise when you walked into the Pony."

"And you ran away from us." Hurin remembered. "By the way, what is your real name?"

"I am Ellenion, my brother is Ereinion."

'Son of the Eldar' and 'Son of Kings' appropriate names for Isildurioni. Like the Lord Belecthor Ellenion was now dressed suitably for his rank in black and deep blue, and on his finger he wore a ring of silver in the form of an eagle with a small adamant stone set  
like a star between its upraised wings. The device seemed familiar to Hurin but he couldn't place it.

The walk became a gallery above a sanded court sounding with the ring of steel on steel. Looking down Hurin was startled to see a number of Women and girls practicing with sword and halberd. A flash of silver-fair hair proclaimed the Lady Gilmith, Prince Armegil's wife, was among them.

"Do your Women also take up arms?" he asked, trying not to sound shocked.

"Sometimes, when there is no Man left to do so." a shadow passed over Ellenion's face. "It is becoming more common. We have many widows and orphans these days."

"I can see you're hard pressed." Hurin offered in awkward sympathy.

"We are losing." the Ranger answered quietly, turning those strange, light filled eyes upon him. "We have been losing ground for more than a hundred years now, since the time of my great grandfather, and are likely to lose all before the end."

"Gondor too. Yet Prince Armegil bids us to have hope."

Surprisingly Ellenion laughed. "Indeed we still have Hope." they had been speaking in the Common Tongue but he used the Elven word 'Estel' with an emphasis that drew a questioning look from Hurin.

"Estel is one one of the names of my cousin Aragorn." he explained. "He was called so for a prophecy that predicts he will bring down the Dark Lord and restore the Kingdoms."

"If any Man can do so it will be Thorongil." Hurin said with the simple faith all Gondor had in the great captain.

"You know him better than I." said Ellenion. "Indeed, I do not know him at all for all we are near kin. My brother and I were babes in arms when he left the North."

"Which would make them a little younger than Hurin himself. "Gondor will be sorry to lose him, but I see he is needed here too."

The Lord Belecthor, transformed again into the Ranger Hawkeye, left Arnost early the next morning with the three horses to be returned to Gwathlad. He would then continue on foot back to his wardenship in the south. If the Gondor Men were a little dismayed  
to see him disappear alone into the Wild, it was clear that none of their Northern kin shared their qualms about a prince of the Isildurioni walking unattended and unguarded all the long leagues back to old Cardolan.

But they had little time to think about it as their party too was preparing to depart. The two young princes, Ereinion and Ellenion, were to guide them on the first part of their journey across the Wild and over the High Pass. And, as their road led past the  
mythical Rivendell home of Elrond Half-Elven, the little Lady Niphredil would accompany them as well.

It was, Princess Gilmith had explained, customary for the children of the Isildurioni to be fostered and educated by their kinsman Elrond. And at nine Niprhedil was judged by her parents old enough to begin her formal training. Hurin was more then a little dismayed to hear this. In his experience little girls of rank traveled in curtained horse-litters with large  
trains of pack horses, guards, servants and attendant gentlewomen. He should have known the thing would be done differently here in the North.

Niphredil entered the stable yard in the lower ward of the stronghold accompanied by her mother and father, a Woman dressed in green leathers and armed with bow and knife as Laebeth had been, and a pretty little girl of her own years with light brown curls and blue eyes.

Three of the shaggy Ranger horses stood next to the Gondor Men's mounts and it was clear from the saddles on two that the little girls were intended to ride pillion. This did not please the Lady Niphredil at all.

"Why can't we have horses too?" she demanded, lower lip protruding in a way that made Hurin suddenly acutely homesick for his sisters. "Erien and I can ride!"

"So you can." Armegil agreed calmly. "But I cannot spare a brace of horses to carry little girls."

"We could share a horse." the daughter suggested hopefully.

"No." said the father with warning emphasis that his daughter ignored, opening her mouth for further argument, only to have Ereinion end the debate by leaning down from his mount to sweep her up behind him.

Armegil turned to Cemendur. "This is Muinith daughter of Morred, Niphredil's nurse." he said, introducing the Woman. "and her daughter Erien, whose task it is to show my daughter how a good little girl behaves."

"I'm not always good." the child piped up, almost defensively. "It was my idea to mix holly berries in the soap and to keep cream in the tower basement and I've had lots of others too."

"I stand corrected." the Prince said, amused. "Still compared to Niphredil, our Erien is  
relatively good."

"Relatively." Muinith agreed dryly.

"I begin to feel sorry for our Uncle." Ellenion grinned, reaching down a hand to help Erien up behind him.

"I too," Armegil agreed ruefully, "but no doubt he will survive, and Rivendell too - I hope!"

They did not head back towards Fornost and the old North Road but southwest on a path that wound between the downs. Their way was littered with the ruins of what had once been good stone manor houses and farmsteads. Once again Hurin was reminded of his home, of the abandoned lands on either side the Great River.

Shortly after noon they came upon the remains of a sizeable town. The crumbling shells of what must once have been splendid market and guild halls rose above the grass grown remains of houses and shops and the tumbledown wreckage of once formidable defensive walls. Circling the ruins they found a crossing of ancient roads, one running due south and the other northeast.

"The eastern track is the old Rhudaur Road," Ellenion told the Men from Gondor, "that ran from Fornost to Minvorn Erain, the eastern capital at the foot of Gram Mountain. We will take the southern way, along the Weather Hills to the great East-West Road."

"The town was called Rhufen." the Woman, Muinith, added, seeing Hurin's eyes straying back to the ruins. "My husband's family lived there, long ago."

"In a stone house with a tower just off the big market square," Erien piped up suddenly, "with running horses carved above the front door."

"It sounds like a very fine house." Hurin offered, a little awkwardly.

"Our people gave up a great deal to follow their King into hiding." Ereinion told him quietly. "Though they do not grudge their losses, they do not forget them."

That was another difference between the Northern and Southern Dunedain, Hurin thought grimly. His people did grudge their losses, every one of them. Perhaps all the more because they knew in their hearts they had only themselves to blame.


	8. Commonfolk of the Lost Realm

They'd left the downs behind, though the land still had a gentle roll to it, and entered thick  
woodlands. Not even Rangers willingly camped in the open so far north, and the twins were prepared to go somewhat out of their way to find shelter for the night, especially with two children in their charge. As evening came on the party turned off the old road onto a narrow forest track that, after an hour or so, ended in a large clearing.

A drystone wall, little taller then a Man and green with toadflax, ivy, stonecrop and selfheal, stood a bowshot distance from the verges of the forest with the long roof of a house and tops of orchard trees showing above it. The heavy wooden gate stood open and the party rode in unchallenged, as if they were expected.

The inner side of the wall had a low wooden platform for defenders to stand on, and enclosed a grassy yard with fruit trees shading a kitchen garden on one side and the house and a number of small outbuildings on the other.

Three Men approached the party, greeting the young princes familiarly by name and, to Hurin's surprise, in the Elvish tongue. Ellenion, doubtless out of courtesy to the Southern visitors, answered in the Common speech:

"Once again we impose ourselves upon you, Master Hallorn, and this time with a  
sizeable company I fear." he dismounted and turned to lift the little princess down. "The small ones are my cousin Niphredil, and her friend Erien. The lady Erien's mother Muinith. And these are kinsmen of ours from the Southern Kingdom, on their way home. The Lord Cemendur, Lord Hurin and their Man Rumil."

Three pairs of keen, green-grey eyes surveyed the Gondor Men with piercing interest. Nor did they seem to mind being studied as intently in return. The householders shared a strong family resemblance and were clearly near kin.

"Master Hallorn is the head of this holding." Ellenion continued politely. "His son Hallas, and grandson Morlas."

Hurin blinked. All three Men seemed in their prime, showing little sign of the difference in their ages. Nor could he make any guess as to exactly how old they were save that Morlas, the youngest, must be several years his senior.

The house was built of age darkened wood on an undercroft of stone. Eaves and window and door frames were richly carved and painted with the entwined figures of beasts and birds. A tall green gowned woman stood in the open doorway to greet them, her honey colored skin and dark eyes suggesting a share of Hill-Men blood in her veins. Hallorn presented her as his wife, Miril, the mistress of the holding.

Inside was a modest hall paneled in many hued woods and decorated with quaint carven grotesqueries. Three children, two well grown boys between twelve and eight years of age and a much younger girl, were playing with a large and varied collection of nuts on  
the slate hearthstone. A grey haired woman sat in a high backed chair nearby and the guests were led over to her to pay their respects. This proved to be Dame Serin,  
Master Hallorn's mother, which together with her visible signs of age meant she must be nearing her hundreth year.

Two younger women, Lindel and Aewenor wives to Hallas and Morlas, laid a table at the opposite end of the hall near the door to the kitchen, and soon all were seated round it, partaking of roasted game birds and venison pies and nut breads spread with honey.

Hallorn's house reminded Hurin more than a little of hunting lodges belonging to his own family and he suspected it, like the villa of Arnost, was a survival from a more gracious time. His host readily acknowledged that he was right.

"Eryn Lossen was once a chase belonging to the High Kings at Fornost." he explained. "My ancestors were their foresters. In a sense we still are."

"Deep woods are favored dwelling places for the dark things surviving from Angmar and the Elder Days." Ereinion put in. "Many of our forests here in the North are so haunted. Hallorn and his fellows have kept that from happening here at least."

"Not entirely." Hallas contradicted. "We've still got a few White Wolves, left over from the Fell Winter, hiding in the more distant glens."

"That was a terrible year." Lindel, his mother, remembered with a shiver. "Wolves howled right outside the wall day and night and my garden froze solid in that awful  
cold. I had to replant everything when spring finally came, even the fruit trees."

Cemendur frowned at her. "Surely, mistress, you're not old enough to remember the winter of 2911?"

She laughed. "Indeed I am. Why that was the year my daughter Gwenlas was born."

The Gondor Men exchanged stunned looks. Cemendur cleared his throat. "Then we must be much of an age I think. I am a hundred and three, quite old by the measure of the Dunedain of the South."

Now it was their hosts turn to look surprised. "Miril is one hundred and two," Dame Serin said, "my son is a dozen years her elder. And I am beginning to feel the weight of my years at one hundred and forty-four."

Hurin, Cemendur and Rumil tried, unsuccessfully, to hide their awe. It had been nigh on six centuries since any Man or Woman of Gondor had reached such an age. These days their span was little longer than that of Lesser Men. Cemendur was exceptional in having retained his vigor past the century mark.

"We do not dwell cheek by jowl with Mordor." Ereinion observed after a brief silence. "The nearness of the Dark land has doubtless taken a sore toll upon our Southern kin."

Possibly. Yet the precipitous decline in life span had begun well before the Morgul Wars and long before Sauron's return to Mordor. Very soon after Gondor had rejected the Heir of Isildur as their king.

After supper the little princess and her companion played happily with the children of the house, all five seemingly unconscious of the difference in their rank. And the adults seemed almost as unaware. Hallorn and his kin clearly knew perfectly well their guests were royal and their manner could not be called disrespectful or even over-familiar - just  
unceremonious.

'There are no kings or lords here in the North.' Belecthor had said, and it seemed the Rangers lived as if that were literally true.

NOTES:

Dunedain don't develop grey hair and wrinkles until 'the end of vigor' which comes very near the end of their span. In the case of the Northern Dunedain this is within five or ten years of one hundred and fifty. Dame Serin has probably already begun the process of detaching herself from Middle Earth in preparation for voluntarily laying down her life.

'Eryn Lossen' tr.: The Snowy Wood


	9. A Legend of the Lost Realm

The southern road seemed surprisingly well peopled compared to the Fornost road. In four days travel the Gondor men and their Ranger guides had come across a goose girl watching her flock feed beside a water lily choked pool, invisible in her grass green gown and kerchief until she'd spoken; a patrol of four Rangers who'd shared their fire for a night before vanishing again into the Wild; a mother and son on horseback, on their way to visit kin at another holding; and an old man fishing peacefully on the bank of a meandering stream.

When Hurin commented on it to Ellenion the Ranger laughed. "Any of our people who happened to be on the Old North Road would have taken good care to avoid you." he explained, then gestured round at the range of high rugged hills, some crowned by crumbling ruins of ancient fortresses, marching along one side of the road and the bog patched lowlands dotted with stands of alder and willow and fragmentary walls of long abandoned farmsteads sloping away on the other. "This is old Endorien, the Midlands, once the most populous of all the ancient domains and still quite heavily settled as we reckon such things."

Hurin looked at him thoughtfully. 'Our numbers dwindle,' Prince Armegil had said, 'but we are still much more than a few thousands.' "How many of our people are there here in the North?"

Ellenion shrugged. "I don't think anyone really knows. We can still field enough Men to walk patrol and guard the Line so the total cannot be much short of one hundred thousands all told, and could be a bit more."(1)

Hurin could only stare. It was unlikely there was even half so many Men of pure Dunedain stock left in all of Gondor!

As the sun began to sink, painting the land westward in gold, the company came upon a stream barring the old road. It was shallow and easily forded but instead their guides turned the horses eastward, towards the hills. "The Warden of the Weather Hills has his holding near here." Ellenion explained. "We will pay our respects and sleep under a roof again tonight."

The stream cut its way into the hills through a winding ravine that at times grew so narrow they had to walk the horses in the streambed itself. Suddenly they emerged into a small vale half filled by a shimmering mere. And floating upon the grey water was a rambling house of fieldstone, brick and half-timbering linked to the bank by a rope bridge. A pair of Rangers materialized out of the hillsides to take the horses and exchange a few quiet Sindarin words with the princes before the party went across the gently swaying bridge and through the windowless cobble floored gate tower into a central court where they were greeted by a very tall golden haired Man in the now familiar Ranger leathers who introduced himself as Galdor and bid them welcome to Mithaelin, the Greymere.

In Gondor fair hair was a sure sign of Northman or Rohirric blood but this Man had classic Dunedain features and his blue-grey eyes held the fugitive silvery glimmer the Gondor men now recognized as characteristic of the Royal House. His hall was far larger than those of Gwathlad or the forester's holding, a lord's hall meant to seat hundreds of retainers, but this was no survival of lost splendour like the Chieftain's villa at Arnost. The flagstone floor was strewn with rushes and sweet smelling herbs, the plain plaster walls hung with woven cloths richly patterned in blue, green, gold and scarlet. Men in white and yellow livery were busy setting up trestle tables for the evening meal and a brace of wolfhounds dozed before the fire at the foot of the hall. There was a second fireplace on the dais, with three banners hanging above it; the star of Elendil, the new moon of Isildur, and between them a white standard emblazoned with a black sword beneath an arc of seven silver stars.

Hurin stared transfixed. This device he recognized, the Maglavorn (2) of the House of Turin. He turned to stare at Galdor talking with Cemendur and the two princes near the door of his hall. The lord of Mithaelin had his yellow hair from Hador Goldenhead and his name and height from Hador's son Galdor the Tall. A shiver went down Hurin's spine as he realized he was looking at the heir to the oldest Mortal line in Middle Earth, older even than the House of the Kings itself. Only a handful of Ancient Houses had survived the Kinstrife and the Great Plague, and not one of them dated beyond the establishment of the realm. Hurin wondered how many truly ancient Noble Houses, tracing their lineages back to Numenor or even to First Age Beleriand, had outlasted the Lost Realm here in the North.

The lady of Mithaelin was not Galdor's wife but a sister, golden haired and nearly as tall as himself, either early widowed or never wed. Her name was Galadris. There was also Galdor's son, Ingloron, an old friend of the twins to judge by their banter and near to them in age, and an orphaned niece, Lorilas, some years his junior and that was all. A far cry from the five generations of the humble forester family. As in Gondor casualties ran highest among the nobility. The princes and lords of the Lost Realm had laid aside their titles and trappings but not their duty.

The company that sat down to dinner had more the look of a garrison than a noble household, most of the Men seated at the lower tables were dressed in Ranger green, but there were also a number of Women and girls who might have corresponded to Hurin's mother's waiting gentlewomen and maidens, and the food was served by young Men in white and yellow like the pages and squires of his father's house. Hurin had supped in many halls and even in the most decorous the noise was tremendous, the very rafters ringing with the babble of voices and laughter, but not here.

The Rangers ate for the most part in silence. Those who spoke did so in voices deliberately pitched to carry no farther than their listeners' ear. Hurin saw a few smiles but heard no laughter. Stern and silent and regal as kings these Northern kinsmen intimidated Hurin, seeming to him more like figures from legend and song than Men and Women of mortal flesh. And he envied them too, sensing they'd hung on to some elusive quality the Dunedain of Gondor had lost. Something he could not name but whose absence he felt almost as a pain.

"Elves love beauty," Ingloron was telling the little princess teasingly, "they will write songs in praise of yours."

"I don't like those kind of songs." she answered, a note of disgust clear in her voice. "Or love songs either. They're boring."

Ingloron concealed his amusement - barely. "You may feel differently when you're a little older, Niphredil."

"I won't." she said firmly. "I prefer the lays of Elder Days myself." Hurin agreed quickly, adding with a sidelong glance at his host. "The Narn I Hin Hurin was a favorite of mine, because of my name no doubt."

"Turin was wet." Erien said calmly. Hurin choked on a mouthful and Cemendur gave the little girl a sternly chiding look, but Turin's descendants(3) seemed unperturbed.

Ingloron smiled as he shot a glinting look at the young princes. "Now I wonder who told her that?"

Ellenion returned his gaze innocently. "Erien has a great deal of natural judgment, she didn't need to be told."

"Turin was brave, passionate, impetuous - and I'm afraid a bit of a fool." Galdor said judiciously then cracked a wry smile. "'Wet' describes him very well. The pity is he didn't live long enough to learn better."

After dinner Galdor took Cemendur, Hurin and Ereinion down a long flight of stairs to a small, bare, stone walled room. Deep niches in three of the four walls were closed by heavy ironbound doors. Galdor produced a key and opened one of them. Inside was a great helm of grey steel bound and ornamented with gold. It had a snarling dragon's head crest, gilded masklike visor and strange runes carved upon the brow band.

This was the Dragon-Helm of Hador wrought seven millenia ago by Telchar, master smith of Nogrod. And on the shelf below it was a sword in a sheath of gleaming black galvorn inlaid with runes in mithril and gold giving the name and lineage of the blade within. The hilts too were of galvorn, polished and smooth, the grip molded to the hand, with stars of adamant upon the guard and a great adamant stone set in the pommel. This was the Maglavorn, the Black Sword itself, wrought in the deeps of time by Eol of Nan Elmoth and born by Turin Turambar and Urin his son.

Galdor drew the blade smoothly from its sheath. It shone blue-black, the candlelight awakening a glitter of azure sparks down its length. "So the Maglavorn survives," Cemendur said reverently, "which we'd thought lost these thousand years. The sword that will slay Morgoth and avenge the marring of the world at the End."

"So it is said." Galdor agreed, a little dryly.

Cemendur looked at him sharply. "You doubt the prophecy, my Lord?"

"A sword, even such a blade as Maglavorn, is but steel." the Heir of Turin answered. "I find it difficult to believe the Evil of the World can be destroyed by so simple a means." He resheathed the blade and returned it to its place.

"Yet that does not mean the prophecy is false," Ereinion observed, "just incomplete. There may be more to the matter than we can now know."

"Doubtless all will be made clear at the End." Galdor agreed. "But that is not yet come, however black these present days seem."

Hurin looked at him, moved and oddly comforted by the certainty in his voice. It was strange, he thought, that the Northern Dunedain who had lost all, found it easier to hold to hope than the Men of the south, clinging grimly to the tatters of their ancient glory.

--

NOTES:

(1) I know this sounds like an awful lot but believe it's not, especially when spread over the nearly 250,000 square miles of Old Arnor. It must have taken a lot of Men to effectively police such a vast area, and when you factor in Women and children and the elderly you get a number in the high tens of thousands - at least. (2) Maglavorn, the Black Sword. (3) Yes I know Turin left no descendants, but this is an AU - besides as the Silmarillion was never completed, (by the Professor, who was in the process of some major revision at the time of his death) so I feel a fanfic writer has a lot of wiggle room here.


	10. Imladris

The land beyond the ford of the Bruinen seemed to slope gently up to the feet of the Misty Mountains looming high and jagged on the horizon, rough with heather and tumbled stone outcroppings, streaks of green showing the tracks of streams and brooks. But the ground was more treacherous than it seemed, riven with unexpected gullies and deep valleys cut by rushing rivers fed by snow melt, and dotted with green and flowering bogs capable of swallowing both horse and Man. Without their guides the Gondor Men were like to have come quickly to grief.

Ereinion led them off the road just past the ford heading north-east and threading his way between the hazards with a confidence that suggested he had covered this ground many, many times before. The valley of Imladris at first seemed no different from others they had looked down into, tree filled with inumerable falls streaking the steep walls feeding the small, swift river at valley bottom. It wasn't until they'd come more than halfway down the steep, winding path cut into the cliff face that they saw the house of Elrond Half-Elven, a cluster of steep roofed halls and low towers linked by airy open colonnades, perched upon a rocky knoll above the river.

The grooms who came running to take their horses were the first living Elves Hurin had ever seen. Tall and willow slender, dark haired and bright eyed with slightly pointed ears and unnaturally smooth features - at least to Mortal eyes. He tried not to stare too obviously at the Elf who took his bridle.

Rumil was not so inhibited. He stared openly, round eyed and with mouth slightly agape, until a pointed look from Cemendur caused him to close his mouth and nervously lower his eyes.

A small, slight person, black hair flying and white sleeves and skirts whipping around her slim limbs streaked down a curve of steps to fling herself into Ereinion's arms, musical Sindarin flowing in an excited stream from her lips.

Hurin had to look carefully at her ears before he could be quite sure she wasn't an Elf. She tore herself from Ereinion to embrace Ellenion with equal enthusiasm, talking far to quickly for Hurin's book knowledge of the tongue to follow, but he did catch the word 'muindor', brother. A little sister perhaps?

A small boy, perhaps ten or so, with a mussed thatch of thick black hair above delicate features and a pair of wide grey eyes greeted the little princess and her companion almost as eagerly. "You have come to stay haven't you, it's not just a visit?"

"Oh yes," Niphredil assured him, "we're staying. It's time we were educated Naneth says."

"I am glad!" the boy said with emphasis. "Gilya and Lilit are no fun at all anymore," he shot a dark look over his shoulder at the pretty girl embracing the twins, "and Iril is almost as bad."

Erien saw Hurin looking at them and nudged her foster sister. Reminded of her manners Niphredil made the necessary introductions. "This is my cousin Gelion, Lord Hurin of Gondor."

The boy bowed with a quick mumbled "At your service." Then whispered urgently to his cousin. "They aren't supposed to know about us!"

"I know," the princess whispered back, "they just found us out. Ada says they won't give us away."

--

A silent but smiling Elf escorted Hurin to a spacious chamber with one wall open to the air, screened from the terrace outside by no more than a row of slender columns. It struck him as a drafty and insecure arrangement but it was not his place to complain and he soon discovered curtained dressing room adjoin his room so he could wash and change in reasonable privacy.(1) Afterward he wandered out onto the terrace, uncertain what to do next and found Cemendur there before him, thoughtfully rereading the scroll of instructions Ecthelion had given them.

"It cannot be said we have failed in our mission," he remarked without raising his eyes, "we have indeed found our surviving Northern kin." then let the scroll roll closed with a sigh of resignation. "But alas, the alliance our Lord hoped for cannot be."

"Cemendur, there are one hundred thousands of them at least!" Hurin said desperately. "Think of it, an army of ten thousand Men of pure Dunedain blood with the strength and hardihood of the Kings of Men of Old. Men like Thorongil! There must be some way we can help them - free them to aid us against our common foe."

"I would that there were." the councilor said wearily. "But I can think of none."

"There is one." a ringing voice declared emphatically behind them, making the Men start and turn. A man with a Woman on his arm came towards them across the terrace. He was certainly of Elf kind but very different from those who had welcomed them for his face not smooth but lined and seamed with power and memory, sorrow and strength. He reminded Hurin rather startlingly of his own grandfather.

The Woman with him was as clearly of mortal kind but enough like to be closest kin. Her face similar in shape, if not so furrowed, with the same wide, wide-set eyes, deep grey beneath winged brows. "There is a way." The Elf continued. "Accept your rightful King, let the Heir of Elendil unite the Dunedain and the Men of Middle Earth under the banner of the Kings of Men!"

"Elrond!" the Woman said sharply and he turned those piercing eyes on her. "It is not that simple."

"It can be." he told her. "It will happen, Ellemir, I have seen it - and so have you."

"I have seen my grandson habited as the High King of the West and riding under the banner of Gondor." she answered. "But I have not seen when or how this is to come about - nor have you!" she turned her brilliant eyes on the Men from Gondor. "A thousand years of tradition and precedent cannot be overturned in a moment." she told them with a kindly smile. "One would think an Immortal Elf would understand that better than any." then slanted an almost mischievous look at the Elf lord beside her. "But then my kinsman is half Man - and so impatient."

Hurin's head was spinning. This was Elrond Half-Elven, herald of Gil-Galad and twin brother of Elros Tar-Minyatur first King of Numenor? And this Mortal Woman, so like him to the eye, was Thorongil - the Lord Aragorn's - grandmother?

"Prince Armegil asked only for our silence." Cemendur was answering. "He believes an open alliance between our peoples would bring disaster on us all."

The Lord Elrond made an impatient gesture. "The Heirs of Isildur have lived in hiding and fought in secret for too long. Now they fear to emerge from the shadows."

"Or perhaps we simply sense the time is not yet come." The Lady Ellemir suggested, seating herself on the bench from which Cemendur had risen. "In any case that decision is not yours to make, Elrond, nor mine, nor Armegil's. Aragorn is our Chieftain and Lord of the Dunedain. It is for him and no other to decide if this is the hour to raise the sword of Elendil and demand the allegiance of Men."

"And if he should do so, would Gondor follow?" Elrond demanded.

Cemendur could only shake his head helplessly. "My Lord I cannot say. As Thorongil the Lord Aragorn is both loved and trusted by the Steward and by our people. But if he should try to claim the crown as Heir of Isildur -"

"The Heirs of Anarion were the Kings of Gondor." Hurin said, finding his voice at last. "It is to them we owe our allegiance." so he had been taught, like every other son of the House of Mardil the Good Steward.

"The right of the Heirs of Anarion to claim any allegiance -" Elrond began grimly.

"Is a very ancient controversy that we need not enter into." the Lady Ellemir interrupted crisply. "Aragorn is as much the Heir of Anarion as he is of Isildur by right of his descent from Firiel, daughter and heiress of Ondoher the last King of the direct line."

"My Lady, I am inclined to agree with you." Hurin said a little desperately. "But I cannot speak for my grandfather the Steward, nor yet for the Council of the Realm."

"Nor can I." Cemendur agreed. "My Lord Elrond, my Lady Ellemir, all Hurin and I can do is support the Lord Aragorn's claim before the Steward and the Council should he present it. I can say that there will be many others willing to support him - but there will also be those who oppose."

Led, Hurin thought grimly, by his Uncle Denethor who would by no means be willing to suffer his longtime rival as his King and master.

--

NOTES:

1. The question of how the inhabitants of Rivendell manage to bathe or dress without giving the entire valley an eyeful has much exercised fanish imaginations. I consider TTT has solved the mystery by showing us Arwen's small curtained boudoir.


	11. Queen of the Lost Realm

Cemendur and Hurin were presented to still more members of the ever increasing Royal House at Elrond's table that evening. Chief among them was the Lady Gilraen, mother to the Lord Aragorn, a beautiful silver haired woman in a rose red gown who reminded Hurin of a gentler, sadder Lady Gilmith.

She smiled at him. "You seem troubled, Lord Hurin."

"Say rather bewildered, my Lady." he corrected ruefully. "For five hundred years Gondor has thought the House of the Kings extinct, it's something of a shock to find it flourishing here in the North."

"Would that we were." she answered wryly. "Ellemir and Arador, our Fourteenth Chieftain, had but three children. The eldest being my husband Arathorn." a shadow passed over her face, "He was slain just a few years after our marriage, Aragorn is our only child." Hurin murmured sympathetically. She smiled again to reassure him and continued. "You have met my husband's younger brother Armegil and his wife Gilmith who is my sister."

Ah, that explained the likeness.

"Gilvagor is their son." Gilraen nodded towards a youth of about nineteen years seated farther down the table who strongly favored the Lady Ellemir, his grandmother, meaning he looked enough like the Lord Elrond to be his son instead of Prince Armegil's. "Arathorn had also a sister, Ellian, between himself and Armegil in age. The twins and Silevril are the children of her daughter, Beruthiel. You have met her son Belecthor I think?" Hurin nodded. "Angwen there is his daughter," she indicated a young girl, about the same age as Gilvagor, a classic Numenorean beauty with dark hair, creamy skin and blue-grey eyes. "and Gelion is his son."

Hurin stared at the little boy surreptitiously flipping nutshells at Princess Niphredil, trying and failing to see any resemblance at all to his grimly regal sire. Gelion looked up unexpectedly and their eyes met triggering a sudden flash of Sight. Hurin Saw a Man, taller even than Belecthor, with the same grave, chiseled features and a star upon his brow. He blinked and it was gone, reached for his goblet and took a quick, restorative gulp of wine. Hurin was not given to Seeings, that gift too had faded in the South, and was uncertain what to make of this one. Had he Seen young Gelion as a Man wearing the star of the Northern Kings? or some royal ancestor of Isildur's Line?

The Lady Gilraen didn't seem to have noticed anything amiss. "So you see there are none so many of us at all. Now, tell me about my son! You know him well?"

"I cannot say anyone knows Thorongil well, save perhaps my grandfather. He is reserved and silent and difficult to come near." Hurin began slowly. "But he is much admired," he smiled a little, "indeed we younger knights fairly worship the ground he treads, and not just for his skill at arms." Hurin struggled to put into words the effect Thorongil had on the Men around him: "For all his quietness there is a power in him - no, say rather a light that draws us to him like moths whether he will it or no. He cloaks himself in shadow and silence trying to hide the flame within him but ever and anon it flashes out and dazzles us -" he stumbled to a halt, flushing. "I am talking nonsense."

But Gilraen's smile held understanding not derision. "No you're not. I know exactly what you mean."

And no doubt she did, for had he not seen the exact same fire in Armegil, Belecthor and the twins? And yes, the Lady Ellemir as well. Looking down the table he saw it again, burning bright and unconcealed in young Gilvagor. The boy had not yet learned to hide his power, but he would. Like his father and cousins he would cloak himself in Ranger green and impenetrable reserve and walk concealed and unknown among his people all his life - unless the King should come again

--

Hurin was not surprised when the Lady Ellemir and Lady Gilraen joined the company in Lord Elrond's withdrawing room, which included also the twins, Cemendur and himself. By now he was accustomed to the manners of the North where the ladies, rather than retreating to apartments of their own for gossip and cakes after dining, sat with the Men in serious talk over good wine.

Ellemir was gowned in silvery violet silk beneath a gauzy white mantle sewn thick with pearls, and wore a pearled circlet upon her brow. Not young but very beautiful. Stern and queenly with the Elven light bright in her eyes. Lord Elrond sat beside her, like enough to be her brother rather than the remote ancestor he was, winged brows drawn together in a slight frown. And at his left hand was the Lady Gilraen an altogether gentler presence, her brilliance muted.

"So Armegil has persuaded you to return to Gondor and keep silent about the Dunedain of the North?" the Elf Lord began, almost accusingly.

"My Lord, the Prince has told us an open alliance would mean the destruction of both our peoples, and we have not the knowledge to gainsay him." Cemendur replied, then ventured cautiously: "Certainly that is not the answer we wished to take home with us."

"Armegil is the Heir and Chief of the Rangers in Aragorn's absence but he does not speak for the Dunedain." Elrond declared austerely. "It is not for him to accept or reject alliance with Gondor."

"Yet my son's concerns are not unfounded." the Lady Ellemir observed. "We Dunedain chose to disappear a thousand years ago to protect our country folk from the ire of the Dark Lord, which we will surely bring down upon ourselves and them if he learns we survive. Already we are hard pressed, it is unlikely we could withstand an open attack."

Lord Elrond's hand slammed down on the arm of his chair. "The Dunedain cannot hide forever! Already your numbers have diminished over the long years. Would you wait until your enemies have devoured all but a tithe of your people before you move?"

"I would wait until the time is right." Lady Ellemir returned coolly. She saw the Gondor Men's puzzled looks and explained. "It is I who speak for the Dunedain in the Chieftain's absence. As head of the House of the King's Sword I am hereditary Steward of the Realm and regent." She smiled at Hurin. "Not unlike the Hurinionath." (1)

Hurin blinked. He was not unaccustomed to strong Women, his mother was one such and his sisters promised to be two more, but he had never before met one who held power in her own right rather than through the indulgence of some Man, be he father, husband or son. Clearly the Law of Tar-Aldarion, allowing for female succession, was followed in the Lost Realm.

"Gondor is also hard pressed, yet she still stands." Hurin put forward cautiously. "If we could divide Sauron's attention, and his forces -"

"The Dark Lord's designs are not yet complete," Lord Elrond agreed, "if we could strike now, Men and Elves united as in the Elder Days -"

"But can they be united?" Ellemir asked. "Lord Cemendur has already expressed his doubts."

"The claim of the Heirs of Isildur to the throne of Gondor was denied twice by the Council of the Realm." the Cemendur said unhappily, adding quickly as Elrond took breath to argue. "My Lord whether this was justly done or not, done it was and we must deal with the fact."

"Then let Aragorn call himself the Heir of Anarion instead." the Elf Lord snapped. "T'is true enough."

"Say rather the Heir of Elendil." said Ellemir. "I am the last of the Elemmirioni, in my children and grandchildren the three lines of descent from Elendil are united." (2)

"But will such a change in style make any difference to the Gondorim?" Ereinion asked Cemendur.

The Councilor could only shake his head. "My Lord, I cannot say. Maybe."

"And maybe it would be best to avoid the question altogether." Ellenion suggested. "Are we not both still bound by the treaty Araphant and Ondoher made?"

Lord Elrond looked as if he was going to object but Cemendur was before him. "I'm sorry, my Lord, but that cannot be done. Once it is known an Heir of Elendil survives the question of the kingship will be raised and must be faced."

"This matter of an alliance is beyond my authority." Ellemir said crisply. "It is for the Lord of the Dunedain himself to decide whether or no it is time to abandon our secrecy. Just as it is for him to decide whether to claim his throne. Go back to Gondor, my Lord Cemendur, and make your case to my grandson."

Hurin felt his hopes rise. Of course the choice by right belonged to Thorongil, and while none of these Northern Dunedain could be expected to have much feeling for Gondor but Thorongil - the Lord Aragorn - knew and loved her.

Elrond too seemed satisfied to leave the matter in his nephew's hands. "Very well then, we must see you get safely home."

"Ereinion and I have already undertaken to guide them over the High Passes." Ellenion assured his uncle and Elrond nodded his approval.

"A moment my Lady." Hurin said suddenly, rising as they all turned questioning eyes on him. "Lord Ellenion spoke of the treaty between Araphant and Ondoher. Prince Armegil told us how you have kept it all these long years. It seems to me high time Gondor made some return."

"It has been for us to make repayment for the fleet King Earnur sent to our aid." the Lady Ellemir assured him kindly.

"That was a thousand years and several wars ago." Hurin retorted. "Thorongil's service has been of great value to Gondor. Though I cannot possibly match his deeds I would make due return by taking service with his people." moving forward he knelt at the Lady's feet.

"Hurinya -" Cemendur began.

"I'm sure my Grandfather will approve once he knows the facts of the matter." Hurin interrupted firmly without turning, continuing with his eyes fixed on Ellemir's. "I cannot claim to be the Lord Aragorn's equal in birth but I am the only son of the Lord Steward's elder daughter and third in line for the White Rod after the Lord Denethor and his son Boromir." The Lady's winged eyebrows lifted slightly in thoughtful consideration.

"You say your grandsire will approve, Lord Hurin, but what of your father and mother?" the Lady Gilraen asked gently. "You are their only son, might they not begrudge your absence?"

"My father is dead." Hurin said quietly. "And my mother - will understand. As you, Lady, understand the reasons for your only son's long absence."

Gilraen bit her lip. "I hope that is so."

"Very well," the Lady Ellemir decided, "if you are resolved on this, my Lord Hurin, I accept your service in the name of Aragorn Dunadan, Isildur's Heir." She laid a light, firm hand upon his bent head. "As the liege man binds himself to the Lord so is the Lord bound to the liege." she said then continued in the High Elven tongue: "Vanda sina termaruva Elenna-noreo alcar enyalien ar Elendil Voronda Voronwe. Nai tiruvantes i harar mahalmassen mi Numen ar i Eru i or ilye mahalmar ea tennoio." (3)

Hurin shivered, recognizing the ancient Quenya formula. Only the Kings of Old had dared to bind themselves by oaths in Eru's name. That this Woman should do so was a potent reminder of her Blood and Heritage.

--

NOTES:

1. Ellemir owes her position as regent for Aragorn to this hereditary office rather than her rank as widow and mother and grandmother of three Chieftains.

2. The Elemmirioni, (aka House of the King's Sword) descended from Elendil's daughter, Elemmire, who acted as regent for Valandil during his minority. Her heirs, the Princes of Dunhirion, were also Stewards of Arnor and Constables of Annuminas.

(3) "This oath shall stand in memory of the glory of the Land of the Star and of the faith of Elendil the Faithful, in the keeping of those who sit upon the thrones of the West and of the One above all thrones for ever."

Those who bound themselves by oath to the Kings of Elendil's Line put themselves in those Kings' power and that power could be terrible indeed as the fate of the Oathbreakers of Dunharrow shows. In return the Kings of Old bound themselves by the most solemn oath possible not to abuse that power. Nor can any be said to have ever done so.


	12. An Exchange of Hostages

The Lady Ellemir wished the assembled company good night and commanded the escort of her new liege man to her chambers. Hurin was delighted to oblige and so put off the inevitable difficult conversation with Cemendur for another hour or two.

The Lady led him out the open wall of the chamber, across a terrace and down a flight of steps into a sunken garden overlooked by several halls. She turned down a stone flagged path that wound its way through stands of trees and stone grottos to a lacy domed pavilion overlooking a sparkling cascade. There she took a small pipe with silver bowl and ivory stem from her sleeve, filled it with dry crumbling leaf-like stuff from a tiny leather pouch and lit it from the lantern illuminating the pavilion.

Taking a deep breath of the smoke she caught Hurin's fascinated gaze and laughed. "Of course our southern kin know nothing of the special virtues of sweet galenas."

"The flowers are esteemed for their scent but I've never seen their smoke breathed before." he admitted. "It seems a strange custom."

"Invented by the Halflings, where they got the idea from I cannot say." Ellemir took another breath of smoke and blew it out softly. "It's very relaxing, and soothing to the nerves. You might consider taking it up yourself now you've decided to spend some time with us." She looked at him straight, the light of those deep grey eyes piercing him like silver lances. "Let us speak frankly, Hurin. You fear for my grandson's safety once his identity is known, and so you offer yourself as a hostage."

"Yes, my Lady." he admitted as frankly. "Though what I said about repaying Thorongil's service was also true."

She nodded. "One may have many motives for choosing a particular course. You seem to me a Man of good judgment for all your youth, Hurin, doubtless you have valid reasons for your fears."

The casual compliment warmed him clear through, just as Thorongil's rare praise always did. "Denethor has always hated and resented Thorongil." he explained. "His judgment cannot be trusted where the Captain is concerned - but he will do nothing that might endanger me."

Winged brows lifted questioningly. "Denethor?"

"My uncle, the Steward's Heir." Hurin answered, swallowed and continued unhappily: "He is by no means an evil Man, my Lady, I have always loved and honored him almost as a father. He is devoted to our House, and to Gondor."

"Which might well make him my grandson's enemy, even without this grudge of which you speak." she said thoughtfully.

Hurin could only nod. "He has never been rational about Thorongil. I don't know why, but it is so."

"It is not always easy to explain the motions of one's own heart, much less that of another." the Lady said and puffed pensively at her pipe before continuing. "Needless to say you are safe with us, Hurin, whatever may happen in Gondor. But your kin cannot know this for certain. It may be they will be reluctant to let Aragorn depart while you remain with us."

He bit his lip, chagrined. "I didn't think of that." She smiled a little. "Never fear, there is a simple solution."

--

The wise and venerable Lord Cemendur, Councilor of Gondor, looked slightly and uncharacteristically bewildered. "You would have the Lords Ereinion and Ellenion come with me to Gondor?" he asked cautiously

The Lady Ellemir nodded. "To take messages and news of our people to Aragorn." she said and smiled at the Councilor. "A letter cannot answer questions."

They sat in the bright morning light on the terrace outside the Lord Elrond's chamber. The Master of Rivendell was with them as was the Lady Gilraen

"Beruthiel's leave must be asked." she objected sharply.

Ellemir raised an eyebrow at her daughter-in-law. "Naturally. But I think she will consent."

Gilraen sighed resignedly, clearly ill-pleased. The Lord Elrond on the other hand seemed very well pleased. "An excellent thought, Ellemir."

"If the young lords are willing naturally I would welcome their company." Cemendur conceded gracefully. The words 'exchange of hostages' went unspoken but were tacitly understood by all. Cemendur, having had a moment to think through the implications, was relieved. He had no fear at all for young Hurin's safety among the Northern Dunedain and Ecthelion would trust his judgment in the matter, but the Lady Emeldir might be harder to convince.

The reasons for the Lord Elrond's approval became clear when the twins appeared, outfitted by their Elvish kinsman for the journey. They wore in long tunics of glittering galvorn(1) mail, flexible as fine cloth, beneath surcoats of supple black leather hems and bordered by stars and niphredil flowers in mithril thread. Their gorgets and vambraces were of dark blue vidrin(2) overlaid with mithril chasings and set with great stars of adamant. And over all went long cloaks of glimmering black velvet fastened at the shoulder by great golden brooches wrought in the form of eagles and set with green elfstones.

The company assembled to see Cemendur and his party off could only stare. The twins looked back, faces fixed in Ranger impassivity but eyes twinkling suspiciously. Then the Lady Gilraen rolled her eyes upward, and the Lady Ellemir gave the Lord Elrond a darkling look that reminded the Gondor Men strongly of her grandson.

The twins' attire all but shouted their lineage ornamented as it was with the flowers of Luthien and the star of the North Kingdom. The eagles however continued to baffle Hurin. He leaned towards Cemendur. "I can't remember, who bore the eagle and the star?"

"The Sorondili." the Councillor answered, a dry note in his soft voice. "That must be their father's house."

A very ancient House, as royal as the line of the Kings itself, being descended from the second son of Tar-Minyatur. In Numenor they'd been lords of Ondosto in the mountainous north and friends and guardians of the Great Eagles who nested in the high peaks. When Sauron was brought as a prisoner to Numenor by Ar-Pharazon the Eagles of Manwe abandoned the Land of the Star and returned to Middle Earth. The Sorondili had followed and, it was said, settled in some remote valley at the foot of the Misty Mountains near the Great Eagles' new eyries. One of the few legends of the North Kingdom still remembered in Gondor.

Hurin held Cemendur's stirrup for him as he mounted. "Take care, Hurinya, and good luck to you." the old Councilor said kindly.

Rumil snorted gently. "With due respect m'Lord, we're the ones who'll be needing all the luck we can get when we break the news to Lady Emeldir."

Cemendur winced. Hurin grinned a little. "Don't worry about Mother, she'll know who to blame."

"Yes, but you'll be safely out of reach." Rumil pointed out.

--

The party - less by one - left Rivendell by a different path then the one they'd entered by, climbing the eastern wall of the valley. But the fells on that side proved just as treacherous and once again Cemendur silently thanked the Valar for their guides.

"As we are not yet of age we must have our mother's consent to go with you to Gondor." the Lord Ellenion explained. "But we would have stopped at Cristhoron in any case before venturing into the passes."

"Conditions in the mountains are always changing," Ereinion agreed. "Mother will have the latest news and help us choose the safest road."

--

NOTES:

(1) Galvorn is the black metal alloy created by Eol in the First Age.

(2) A gorget is a neckpiece, vambraces are of course armguards. Vidrin is another Elvish alloy, this one of my invention not Tolkien's, and blue in color.


	13. Cristhoron

Cemendur had expected Cristhoron to be yet a another simple holding tucked away in a deep riven glen, like the three the three that had hosted them on their journey from Imladris. He was wrong. Like the Kings' villa at Arnost the stronghold of the Sorondili was a relic of the Ancient Days.

From a distance it seemed a natural formation, a tall spire of grey stone rising from an outlying spur of the Misty Mountains. It was only as they drew closer Cemendur saw the spiral galleries, hanging terraces, and many tall windows carved out of the living rock. Behind the tower a deep cleft opened between two peaks, veiled by the glistening mist of a towering waterfall like a streak of silver and crystal against the weathered stone.

A winding path led up the side of the mountain spur to a gate carved into the rock, the massive stone leaves engraved with the Eagle and the Star of the Sorondili. Ereinion laid his hand upon the star and the doors parted, heavy slabs swinging ponderously outward. Within was a tunnel sloping gently upward to a second archway closed by a grill of black iron adorned with golden eagles spiraling inward to a great mithril star.

This gate was opened for them by a Ranger clad not in green but stone grey. His eyebrows rose expressively at the sight of the twin's finery but the habitual silence of the Northern Dunedain was not broken by questions or explanations. The party dismounted on the edge of a green garth at least as large as the Citadel of Minas Tirith.

Silvery streams fanned out from the base of the great keep to cascade down carven steps and fill pools and watercourses where red and golden carp swam. Horses, cattle and sheep grazed peacefully upon the sward, shaded by the evergreen boughs of oiolaire, lairelosse and taniquelasse trees breathing their sweet, heavy scent. Doors and windows, stairs, balconies, oriels and turrets had been carved out of the cliff walls surrounding the garth giving it the look of a city park. As they climbed the long straight stair to the great doors of the Keep Cemendur saw an eagle, larger than a Man, spiral downward to land somewhere near the peak of the tower.

"We've chosen our time well." Ellenion commented. "That will be Gwahir's messenger with the latest news."

The tall doors were emblazoned like the gates with the Eagle and Star and opened onto an aisled hall the capitals of its rows of pale grey stone pillars fancifully carved into strange beasts who combined the head and wings of an eagle with the limbs and tails of lion or horse or clawed serpent. The twins led their guests through a great arch framed by a frieze of knights and ladies riding upon great eagles and up a broad stair past many landings until Cemendur's legs ached and his breath came hard. Finally the stair ended in an open archway leading to the first of a succession of curving, tapestry hung halls and chambers each a short flight of steps above the other, lit by tall windows inset with the devices of ancient kings and heroes in jewel colored glass.

The series of antechambers and watching chambers finally ended in a great circular hall taking up the entire top floor of the keep. Oriel windows looked north, south, east and west and between them hung paintings depicting the mighty Deeds of the Eagles of Manwe; the rescue of Maedhros, of the body of Fingolfin, of Hurin and Huor, and of Beren and Luthien. The domed ceiling glistened a sapphirine blue and was emblazoned with a great golden sun beneath which stood a massive carved onyx table, its polished surface inlaid with a many pointed star of mithril and nacre, surrounded by a number of high backed chairs emblazoned with the Eagle and star in gold. Otherwise the room was entirely empty.

Cemendur and Rumil had barely time to exchange a bewildered look before the twins headed purposefully towards the western window embrasure. Following them the Gondor Men passed through a narrow door tucked into a corner of the oriel and onto a tiny gallery threading its way up the outer wall of the Keep. It ended in sort of chamber, roofed but open on all sides, hewn from the pinnacle of the Keep. Most of the rough stone floor was taken up by a tangle of old tree limbs overlaid by a layer of fresh, spicily scented, green boughs from the Elven trees far below. The great Eagle was settled comfortably in the nest with a Woman perched near him, both turned piercing, unblinking eyes upon the intruders.

The Eagle's were as blue as the skies of Manwe, the Woman's grey with the by now familiar quicksilver gleam. Then the great curved beak opened and a harsh voice said, in perfectly comprehensible Westron: "You two are very fine."

Rumil's mouth dropped open and even Cemendur blinked. Of course they knew the Eagles of Manwe spoke to the heroes in the old tales, but that was quite a different thing from hearing it with their own ears under the bright sun.

"This is our uncle's idea of suitable garb for princes of the Isildurioni on an embassage to the Steward of Gondor." Ereinion replied, an undertone of amusement audible in his voice. "And these are the Lord Ecthelion's Men, sent to discover the origins of a certain mysterious captain in his service."

"Ah." the Woman's eyebrows lifted in a way that made her look startlingly like the Lord Elrond. "I sense an interesting story." her penetrating gaze passed over the two tired Men from the South. "But our guests must be allowed to rest while I hear it. What were you thinking to drag them all the way up here after a long day's ride, Ereinion? Ellenion, show them to nearest guest chambers and see hot water and whatever else they need is brought to them."


	14. More Twins

Cemendur opened his eyes. He must have been asleep for some hours as the guest chamber was quite dark though a soft bluish-silver light, like moonlight, welled through the lower panes of the window embrasure. But looking out he saw no moon, only the trees far below sparkling with points of silver-blue light illuminating the garth and rivaling the stars just emerging in the grey twilight skies. More startling however was the homely golden light of candle and lamp shining from the windows in the cliff faces overlooking the garth. Cemendur had assumed the city of the Eagles was empty, abandoned like Fornost and the lesser towns they had passed on their journey. Once again he'd been wrong.

The door behind him opened. "How long have I been asleep, Rumil?"

"Nigh on five hours, m'Lord." his Man replied, setting a tray with gently steaming basin and ewer on the table.

"As long as that?" Cemendur walked towards him, unbuttoning his tunic.

"It was a hard ride, m'Lord. And you're not as young as you were." Rumil offered, taking the garment from his master.

There was an understatement for you. At one hundred and three Cemendur was accustomed to thinking of himself as very old. It had been a shock to discover Dunedain here in the North ordinarily passed their hundreth year in full vigor, living twice as long as lesser Men, and and fifty or more years longer than their Southern kin.

Cemendur dried his face and hands and turned to inspect the clothes Rumil had laid out on the bed. "I take it I am expected somewhere?"

"In my Lady's solar for a late supper, m'Lord."

--

The outer wall of the Lady Beruthiel's solar was a curved arcade of slender white columns opening onto a hanging terrace paved with colored marbles. The lady was sitting out under the new stars talking to two shadowy Men when Cemendur entered. He took them to be her sons. Her head turned, she rose and came into the lamplit room to welcome him.

The Lady Beruthiel was the tallest Woman Cemendur had ever seen, at least a handspan taller than himself (1). She was robed in azure and silver with a tiny adamant star upon her brow and like her brother, the Lord Belecthor, resembled the statues of the ancient Kings and Queens to an almost alarming degree. "Welcome to the Keep of Cristhoron, my Lord Cemendur. I apologize for my sons, they should have known better than to force a guest to climb all those stairs."

"But this house of yours is nothing but stairs, Beruthiel," a voice protested humorously, "your guests cannot escape them."

"Yet they shouldn't be required to climb from garth to eyrie upon arrival, especially after a day's ride over the fells." she returned as lightly, over her shoulder.

A pair of twins entered but not Beruthiel's sons, or even Mortal Men. Yet they bore sufficient likeness to their hostess in coloring and feature for Cemendur not to be altogether surprised when they were introduced as the sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir. These family resemblances were a little unnerving, a sharp reminder that the Kings of the Kings of Men were more than Man.

Was that the real reason the Council of Gondor had rejected Isildur's Heirs, Cemendur wondered suddenly, fear of their strangeness? Of the Elven light in their eyes and semi-divine Maiar strain in their blood? That same blood had run thin in the line of Anarion long before it failed. Accustomed to Kings who were no more than Men had the Councilors of the Realm been unwilling to accept one who was something more?

The door behind Cemendur opened and the other set of twins entered, still attired in the black and silver splendor their Elvish uncle had given them and garnering their cousins' full attention.

Elladan circled the two. "Landroval was right, very impressive indeed."

Elrohir, also circling widdershins, added: "I always said if they'd just comb their hair and wash their faces they'd be quite presentable."

Beruthiel's eyebrows rose. "Merely presentable?"

Elrohir tossed her a grin over his shoulder. "I have not a mother's bias."

"Of course getting a Ranger to wash is an almost impossible task." remarked Elladan.

"Nearly as impossible as distracting certain Half-Elves from their grooming rituals." Ellenion riposted easily.

"Fortunately they don't have to sleep any more than their Elven kin." Ereinion explained to Cemendur. "and so can spend half the night combing and braiding their long locks."

"And the other half smoothing scented lotions into their hands and faces." said Ellenion.(2)

"While Rangers, on the other hand, refuse to spend even a moment or two on ablutions with plain water." Elrohir retorted.

"I have gathered the unkempt look of our Northern kin is quite deliberate," Cemendur observed mildly, "a form of disguise perhaps?"

"Something like that." Ellenion conceded, adding To his cousins: "We certainly don't want to be taken for Elven Princes."

"Well you're not like to be taken for anything less dressed like that." Elladan pointed out.

"Which no doubt is your father's intention." sighed the Lady Beruthiel.

"I fear the Lord Elrond may be trying to force Lord Aragorn's hand." Cemendur admitted.

Beruthiel made wide, innocent eyes. "Oh no! Our Uncle would never dream of doing such a thing." and Elladan gave a gentle snort as the Mortal twins grinned appreciation of their mother's sally.

"You'd think Father would know better than to even try, given that the Isildurioni are the most stubborn and contrary of all Mortal Men."

Elrohir nodded emphatically. "To urge a course of action upon them is the surest way to get them to do the exact opposite!"

"Not always." said Ereinion.

"We only turn contrary when certain elder relatives try to push us into doing things we don't want to." finished his brother.

--

NOTES:

1. Cemendur is just over six feet, normal male height for Southern Dunedain, but Beruthiel is 'man-high', six foot four, just a hair shorter than her sons.

2. This is not entirely a joke. Elladan and Elrohir, and other Elves, do use lotions to protect their skin from weathering when convenient. How else can Legolas keep that porcelain complexion?


	15. Dinner Conversation

The Lady Beruthiel's supper was served on a round table before a fireplace guarded by gilt-bronze eagles. The chalcedony plates were carved with spread and furled wings, and the goblets colored glass chased in mithril and gold. The tableware of heavy silver was embossed with the Eagle and the Star. However the food was as plain and substantial as that Cemendur had eaten at other, lesser holdings.

"You come at an opportune time," the Lady Beruthiel was saying, "as both Elrond's twins and I have errands on the other side of the Mountains. We can travel together."

"A nice little family party." Ellenion agreed and glanced sidelong at Elladan. "Another mission to Thranduil?"

His cousin nodded ruefully. "He knows the Woodland Realm cannot stand alone but it's a constant struggle against his, and his people's, instinctive dislike of outsiders."

"He's not objecting to the Ranger watch on Dol Guldur is he?" Ereinion asked, frowning.

Elladan shook his head. "No. Your Men have worked hard at being accepted and succeeded. The Dunedain's familiarity with the Elven tongue and Elven ways has served them well. It's another quarrel with the Dwarves I'm afraid, over the Forest Road as usual."

"The sovereignity question again." said Ellenion resignedly.

Elrohir arched a brow. "Isn't it always?"

"I don't know how well acquainted you are with the Northlands, my Lord Cemendur," Lady Beruthiel explained politely to her guest, "but there is an ancient Dwarf road across the Mirkwood. It fell into ruin after the Dragon Smaug destroyed the Kingdom under the Mountain. However the realm of Erebor was restored some thirty years ago and the new King had the road rebuilt and put back into use. And he and King Thranduil have been arguing about who has jurisdiction over it ever since." she turned to her Elven kinsmen. "I presume the problem is Dain's new guard stations?"

The half-elven brothers stared at her then exchanged a speaking look. Elladan blew out a sigh. "Of course your Rangers would know all about it! Why didn't they say something?"

The Lady's lips curled in a smile both wry and rueful. "We were hoping the Elves wouldn't notice."

"You know how unreasonable the Elder Races can be." Ellenion put in, eyes glinting.

"I would argue with you if I could," Elrohir said wearily. "But as we all know neither Elves nor Dwarves have ever been particularly reasonable about the other."

"Which is why a delegation of Dalesmen will be negotiating on behalf of the Dwarves." added Elladan.

Ellenion laughed out loud. "Pity the poor Men! caught in the middle as usual."

"Spare some sympathy for the poor Half-Elven as well." said Elrohir.

"Oh I do." Ereinion assured him. "I wish you luck. Cousin, you're going to need it."

"And don't we know it!" Elladan sighed and turned to the Lady. "But what errand do you have over the mountains, Beruthiel?"

"I want to talk to Grimbeorn about increasing his patrols." she answered and all four men suddenly looked much more serious.

"Orc trouble?" came sharply from Ereinion.

His mother shook her head. "Not yet. But their numbers are beginming to increase again. It's only a matter of time. We're going to have to keep a close watch if we're to avoid unpleasant surprises like the 'Front Door'".

Cemendur was unable to follow much of this but one point caught his attention. "You have dealings with the Valesmen?" for certainly Gondor had heard no word of their Northern kin from that quarter.

"We do. But only as Rangers, wanders and hunters of the Wild." Beruthiel answered. "The Beornings have secrets of their own. They ask no questions."

"So who does know your secret," Cemendur probed, "The Elves of Rivendell -?"

"And of Lindon, our ancient allies." Ellenion admitted.

"And the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains and of Erebor who are also allies from of old." added his brother.

"So it is just your fellow Men whom you distrust." the Councilor said pointedly.

Beruthiel and her sons exchanged looks.

"It is not so simple as that." said the Lady.

"Lindon and Rivendell are guarded realms, governed by powers that know the Dark Lord and reject him utterly." Ellenion explained.

"The Dwarves also keep to themselves, and while many know the Rangers only their princes know that our Chief is Isildur's Heir." added his brother.

"The continued existence of Isildur's Line is a closely guarded secret." Elladan assured Cemendur. "Not shared even with all of the Wise."

"But the remaining Noldor do not forget that the blood of their Kings runs in the veins of the Isildurioni." Elrohir said quietly. "And the Sindar will risk much for Luthien's Children, in memory of her whom they loved."

"And Dwarves always pay their debts." finished Ereinion.

"And Men?" Cemendur prompted.

"Men change." said Beruthiel flatly. "It is their nature, the nature of Middle Earth. Old loyalties fade and are forgotten. It has been more than a dozen lives of ordinary Men, since there was a King in the North. We are become the stuff of childrens' tales."

"Gondor remembers." Cemendur said defensively.

"Gondor rejected Isildur's Heirs, not once but many times." Elladan answered, with an edge to his voice. "Can you blame them if they now take you at your word?"

"Elladan!" Beruthiel cut him off sharply and turned to Cemendur. "We do not forget our duty to our people or our kin. That is why Aragorn went to Gondor in the first place. We work in secret but we do what we can."

'And have trained yourselves to expect nothing in return.' the Councilor thought bleakly. 'Not even gratitude.'


	16. Departing Cristhoron

Cemendur had been impressed from the beginning by the dispatch with which the Northern Dunedain managed their affairs. Like soldiers in the field they made a decision and acted on it at once. Yet he was more than a little surprised to discover the Lady Beruthiel fully prepared to ride out with them the very next morning, contrary as it was to a lifetime's experience of the fair sex.

The Lady wore Ranger leathers in shades of grey, meant to blend with bare stone rather than wood and fell, and her long hair was braided. Unlike Laebeth and Muinith she wore a sword and carried a great steel Numenorean warbow like the Lord Belecthor's. Men with the strength to draw a great bow had grown scarce in Gondor and Cemendur had never heard of a Woman able to do so. No doubt he stared.

"Yes she can draw it." Ellenion said in his ear, a note of amusement clearly audible in his voice.

"And match our uncle arrow for arrow in speed and accuracy." added Ereinion from the other side.

"It's in the blood. Our father was a great bowman, as were all of his fathers before him." their mother said blithely, having overheard both remarks, "The warbow my brother carries was a reward for valor given by Tar-Minastir to our ancestor Cubeleg the Archer."

Cemendur was hard put to maintain his usual urbanity. "Your father was a common bowman?" he asked, trying not to sound shocked.

"Most uncommon." the Lady corrected. "But no, he was of the Isildurioni, his forefather having married the daughter of a past Chieftain." she smiled at him sidelong. "We make little account of rank these days. We are all Rangers now."

Her brother, the Lord Belecthor, had said much the same. And certainly the manner of the common folk towards their Royal House was notable for its lack of ceremony. Yet the idea of a simple bowman, however old and distinguished his family, marrying a princess of the blood royal was so far contrary to the law and custom of Gondor as to leave Cemendur speechless.

The Kings of the Line of Anarion, in their pride, had disowned sons and daughters who made matches unworthy of their high estate. Clearly law and custom were quite otherwise here in the North. Had not Beruthiel had said her father was accounted royal by right of his descent on the mother's side. And why not? Judging by the result the bowman's blood was as worthy to mingle with the blood royal as that of the noblest House in Gondor - if not more so.

Cemendur continued to brood as the party rode out of the garth and down the steep rock cut path to the river valley below. Gondor had always been obsessed with preserving the purity of the Numenorean blood, above all that of the Royal House. They had enacted many laws designed to do so, but with what result? the Line of the Southern Kings was extinct, the few remaining Noble Houses were debilitated by constant inbreeding, and commoners of pure descent were not to be found outside the Circles of Minas Tirith or the haven of Dol Amroth. And for all their efforts the dwindling of lifespan, hardihood, and wisdom continued unabated, even in those of provably 'pure' descent.

Yet here in the North the ancient Numenorean strain had remained strong in the face of terrible adversity. Certainly they had taken no great care to keep their blood pure. Cemendur had in his journey across the Lost Realm encountered several Rangers of mixed heritage. Could it be that 'purity of blood' was unimportant? he frowned troubled by the renegade thought but it would not go away. Were the Dunedain of Gondor failing for some other, less tangible reason?

--

They forded the Bruinen, shallow but very fast here near its source, and rejoined the Great Road which rose steeply, overshadowed by gigantic ancient pines clinging grimly to the rocky slopes. By mid-afternoon they had climbed above the tree line and the air was perceptibly colder. The Rangers had built a drystone traveler's rest house, roofed with slates, on a terrace cut into the barren slope just below the entrance to the pass proper. Trickles of smoke rose from the louver indicating another party was already in residence.

It proved to be a company of Dwarves who proved reticent about the business that had brought them over the mountains but more than willing to talk about their adventures in the Passes.

"We could smell Warg from the second day on," their leader, Eilif, told Beruthiel, "But they didn't get up the nerve to try their luck until the night of the fifth day." he showed teeth in a savage grin. "We killed three of them, bloodied as many others and they fled squealing."

"I take that's when Brynold here was wounded?" Ellenion asked, looking up from the Dwarf he was tending.

Elilif nodded. "After that they shadowed us and made a few feints by night but no more real attacks."

"Though there might have been if we'd dropped our guard for so much as a moment." put in another of the Dwarf company.

His leader nodded. "Keep a sharp watch, especially at night, and you should be all right."

Beruthiel looked out the open door at the long shadows cast by the westerning sun. "We will stay here tonight." she decided. "and start at daybreak tomorrow. No need to spend any more nights than we must in the mountains." Her sons, and even the Half-Elven twins, accepted this without comment. Clearly the Lady was in command, another astonishing reversal of Gondorian custom but Cemendur was becoming used to that by now.

He was more interested in the easy familiarity existing between the Three Kindreds here in the North. While Elladan and Elrohir's mission proved relations were not always amicable even the quarrels seemed like those that occur between close neighbors when one rubs the other wrong.

In Gondor both the Elder races had receded into tale and legend for neither Dwarf nor Elf had been seen there since the days of the Kings. Strange stories were whispered about the Golden Wood on the borders of Rohan but it had been long since any Man had tried to learn the truth of them. And only the vaguest rumors of the Dwarf realms of Erebor and the Iron Hills had reached the White City, though there had been some trade with Moria before its destruction. Gondor's dealings had always been chiefly with other Men, perhaps to their loss.

Cemendur settled into his blankets, resigning himself to yet another night on hard stone - and at his age too! How had Ecthelion talked him into this? He smiled wryly to himself. By appealing to his curiosity that's how. His smile faded. Neither of them had expected the answers he had found or the dilemma he was bringing home to Gondor in the persons of two princes of the ancient Kingly House


	17. High Pass

The trail cut into the mountain's flank was so narrow they had to ride single file. The Lady led the way with the Elven twins behind her, then Cemendur and Rumil and finally Ellenion with Ereinion bringing up the rear. The ground rose steeply on one side and fell away to a narrow wooded valley far below on the other.

"M'Lord," Rumil said suddenly. "is that a road down there?"

Craning his neck to look down into the valley Cemendur descried a pale streak appearing here and there between the treetops.

"Your eyes are not deceiving you," Ellenion assured them from behind Rumil. "it is indeed a road, built by the High King Tarcil some two and a half thousand years ago through the high valleys and tunnels delved beneath the mountains."

"Unfortunately it's been unusable since the days of the Witch Wars when our Enemy called evil things from the Dark Years out of their hiding places beneath the mountains to infest the valleys and tunnels." Elladan put in over his shoulder. "I remember how proud Tarcil was of it," he continued sadly, "and rightly so. Broad enough for cart and carriage it was, paved with hard white stone from the quarries beneath Mount Gram, and every valley held a way house with fair gardens for the refreshment of travelers."

"And the Dwarves who helped carve out the tunnels lit them with crystal lamps. And Lady Isfin painted the walls and vaults with frescoes of forest and open sky so one almost felt oneself still above the ground." Ellenion continued, in the tone of one who has heard all this many times before.

Elladan twisted in his saddle to shoot a reproachful look over the Gondor Men's heads at his young relative. "It was a great achievement, a thing both useful and beautiful."

The Lady Beruthiel's voice floated back to them. "It was. And sorry we are to leave Tarcil's road to the Enemy but we simply cannot afford the Men it would take to clear and guard it. Were Tarcil here he would say the same."

"I don't doubt but he would." Elladan agreed, mouth twisting in a grimace Cemendur couldn't quite interpret. "The Isildurioni have always valued their people above their works."

--

"It is hard for our Uncle and his children," Beruthiel told Cemendur some hours later when the road had widened enough for two to ride abreast, her voice pitched Ranger fashion to reach no further than his ears. "they remember Arnor in its splendor, and saw the pride and joy our ancestors took in its building. It saddens them that those Kings' heirs should seem to care so little for what has been lost."

She shrugged. "But one cannot miss what one has never known, nor grieve overmuch for what one has never seen save in books or through another's memories. The World changes and it is the nature of Men to change with it. And we Isildurioni are Men not Elves, for all our Eldarin ancestry."

Cemendur nodded wordlessly. He had occasionally seen a touch of sadness in the Northern Dunedain when they spoke of their Lost Realm but the never the intense longing for ancient glory that gnawed at the hearts of the Gondorim. The Isildurioni and their people remembered the past but did not cling to it. Perhaps because they had chosen to give up their state, while the glory of Gondor had been reft away by main force very much against the will of her people though their own folly had played no small role in their losses.

The Lady looked ahead at the backs of her sons glimmering in their black velvet cloaks and smiled a little sadly. "You were quite right about Uncle trying to force Aragorn's hand, or at the least send a forcible message as to the decision he should make. This Age, the Third Age, is drawing to its end and with it our Uncle's days in Middle Earth." she gave a gentle sigh. "His Mortal kin are very dear to Elrond. We are all he has left of his brother, Elros, and he doesn't want to leave us like this; living in hiding, unknown and unfriended."

There didn't seem to be anything Cemendur could say to that either. The Lady's head turned sharply and a moment later Cemendur caught it too, a rank animal scent.

"Warg." she said grimly. At almost the same moment Ereinion fell back to join them. "Mother -"

"I know. We are being shadowed."

"We are surrounded," her son corrected, "look." And sure enough sharp Dunedain eyes could just pick out brindled grey shapes slipping through the rocky slope ahead and behind and alongside.

The travelers automatically moved closer together, the Gondor horses snorting their alarm and twitching anxiously beneath their riders. The Ranger's mounts remained steady but a rim of white showed around their eyes.

"Have you and your Man had any experience of wolf fighting?" the Lady asked Cemendur softly.

"I have." he replied grimly. "The winter of 2911 was hard for us in the South as well. Wargs from the Misty Mountains took advantage of the freeze to try and colonize the White Mountains. I took part in the great wolf hunts that spring. Rumil?"

"Some of the Orc bands prowling Ithilien these days ride on Wargs." the Man replied. "I have fought them with my Lord Hurin."

"Good," said the Lady, "then we all know what to expect."

"These are greater numbers than Eilif reported." Elrohir observed quietly from behind Cemendur.

Beruthiel nodded. "Yes. They have mustered a strong force to face us."

"They know who we are." Ereinion said quite calmly.

His mother's smile sent a chill down Cemedur's back. "Perhaps. And perhaps they need a reminder." She unslung the great bow, knocked and drew. Her arrow-point wavered slightly as she selected her target, then she loosed. A massive brindled body rolled down the slope, the long steel shaft transfixing its skull, and across the road in front of them to fall silently over the edge into the valley far below.

The shadowing shapes melted away and the Lady laughed softly. "That's better. Keep your distance my friends, and think again whether you wish to chance such foes."

"We needn't fear attack by day, I think." Elrohir remarked. "Not with so many bows between us, and one of them Berya's. But it's like to be a busy night."

"That I do not doubt." smiled the Lady.


	18. Battle By Night

There wasn't just one trail across the High Pass but several crossing and re-crossing each other as they wound their way between the peaks. Alerted to their danger the Lady led her party off the track they'd been following onto one that climbed steeply up to a narrow col, dusted with snow, in the notch between two summits.

A shallow cave had been cut into the mountainside beneath a pointed overhang. The smooth floor, hearth built into the back wall and cache of firewood indicated it had been made by Men not nature. It was also an eminently defensible position commanding the steep, narrow trail with good solid stone to guard their backs.

As the sun vanished behind the western peaks and a cold wind smelling of snow began to blow from the east Ereinion laid and lit a fire in the hearth providing a welcome warmth and light.

The Lady Beruthiel stationed herself at the front of the shelter setting her long steel hafted arrows in neat rows point downward in the bare earth. Her head lifted as a wolf's howl warbled across the mountains. "Summoning reinforcements."

Elladan, beside her, nodded grimly. "I fear we will be facing an attack in force.

"We have definitely been recognized." Ellenion observed coolly as answering howls floated over the col.

"Wargs would not attack a party of Rangers with Mother at its head of their own free will." Ereinion said thoughtfully, coming to stand beside his twin. "Some one has constrained them to do so."

Elrohir nodded agreement. "Not their Orcish allies, some other they fear more than they fear Beruthiel."

The Lady looked at him sidelong, brows knit in a frown. "You mean Khamul at Dol Guldur?"

"Can you think of another with such influence over the beasts?"

"No." said Elladan. "And that worries me. If he has guessed what the Rangers truly are, or worse yet who leads them -"

"As your father is always telling us, we cannot hide forever." Beruthiel answered calmly and resumed lining up her arrows. "But it seems to me more likely Khamul is snatching at an opportunity to rid himself of those infamous Orc killing sons of Elrond Half-Elven."

"Let us hope so." said Elrohir.

The party, including Cemendur and Rumil, had without orders or consultation formed themselves into a wedge beneath the spear shaped overhang with Beruthiel at point, the Elven twins to her right and her sons and the Gondor Men guarding the longer left flank. Both sets of twins were armed with the short black Ranger bows, less powerful then the Lady's seven foot great bow but still effective. The howls were closer now, warbling calls and responses.

"Working up their courage." Beruthiel said, with another of her steely smiles.

"Wish I'd thought to bring some wolf spears." Rumil murmured to Cemendur.

Ereinion shook his head. "Why should you when you were taking the southern road? Besides they are too heavy and unwieldy for travel," he flashed a sudden, rueful smile, "why do you think we Rangers don't carry them even when we know we are going into Warg country?"

Dusk deepened into true night. The stars came out, flickering fitfully between wisps of the mist that gave the mountains their name. The wolfish chorus continued, fearsome and menacing but their intended prey were battle hardened veterans all and if not immune to fear well capable of mastering it.

The Men and Woman listened calmly but the horses, huddled together at the back of the shelter, were somewhat less stoic. The Ranger steeds seemed to be trying to comfort the trembling Gondor horses with soft wickers and gentle nuzzling. Cemendur caught Rumil throwing unhappy glances over his shoulder, clearly longing to go and reassure his frightened charges.

"Not now, Rumil."

"Yes, m'Lord." the Man answered unhappily.

It was a brief exchange but it caused both to miss the first seconds of the Wargs' charge. The great bow sang and the lead animal fell with a steel shaft through its brain. the Lady's second arrow ripped through the throat of another Warg to transfix the heart of a third.

The smaller Ranger bows showered the oncoming beasts with short black arrows piercing throats and eyes. Cemendur didn't see a single shaft miss its target and no Warg got within a dozen feet of the defenders. The charge soon petered out though there were still slinking shapes and hostile green eyes in the darkness beyond

"It can't be that easy." Cemendur murmured, shifting his grip upon his sword.

"No." Ereinion agreed wryly. "But what they've got in mind -" At just that moment a horse sized grey beast with burning eyes and slavering jaws dropped from the stone overhang above their heads directly in front of the Lady.

Beruthiel drove the arrow in her hand through its eye and into the brain. Then wielding her steel bow like a quarterstaff fended off two more.

Cemendur thrust his own blade into the gaping jaws of yet another Warg giving Ereinion time to cast aside his bow and draw his sword. After that all was a whirl of bright steel, dripping red maws and savage green eyes.

Driven backwards by a nearly black Warg Cemendur's right foot landed in a pool of blood and slid from under him. He fell hard, wheezing for breath he saw the Warg looming above him - then a wild neigh sounded in his ears and the great wolfish face was mashed to bloody ruin by the steel shod hooves of an attacking warhorse.

Rumil pulled him clear. "It's Culuros, m'Lord!" he shouted, "Good boy! Brave boy!"

Looking rather dazedly around Cemendur saw all seven horses had joined in the battle. The two grey Elven steeds were trampling three Wargs underfoot tearing at them with their teeth and covering Elrond's twins has they peppered the oncoming beasts with arrows. Cemendur's own chestnut, Culuros, had positioned himself in front of his master rearing up and striking at a snarling Warg, keeping it at bay.

Suddenly Rumil pushed Cemendur behind him, swinging his blade to half decapitate a second Warg trying to pull down Culuros from the side. Rumil's own white gelding charged forward to guard the warhorse's other side.

The three Ranger horses defended their masters and mistress with teeth and hooves, allowing them the space they needed to use their bows, yet even with the animals' help Cemendur's experienced commander's eye saw they were in dire straits, and likely to be overcome by sheer numbers.

A flicker of movement above the heaving sea of brindled grey pelts caught his eye as something large and winged dropped from the sky. Other winged forms joined it and the Wargs scattered howling. Within moments the trampled red-dyed mud of the col was empty of living enemies.

Cemendur heard Rumil swallow hard beside him. "M'Lord those - those are -"

"Griffons." said the Councilor flatly. "And hippogriffs. And wyverns." the two Gondor Men stared wonderingly at the assemblage of mythic beasts blinking back at them over a heap of Warg carcases. They had seen such creatures carved in stone or cast in metal decorating street and court in Minas Tirith and more recently the halls and chambers of Cristhoron but Cemendur had always assumed they were no more than a sculptor's fantasy. Yet again he'd been proven wrong.

All the half dozen or so beasts had the head and powerful wings of Eagles but combined in some with catlike bodies, complete with lashing tails and great padded paws. Others were horse-like in form but smaller, with the delicate cloven hooves of mountain goats. And two had scaled sides and clawed feet with long serpentine tails.

The largest of the griffons picked its way with catlike delicacy over the dead Wargs to dip its head in a sort of bow before the Lady Beruthiel.

She bowed back. "Elen sila lumenn omentielvo." she said, adding to the formal greeting also in Quenya, "You have our thanks, Children of Manwe, for your most timely aid."

And the creature replied, but between its harsh voice and antique dialect Cemendur was quite unable to make out its meaning. The Lady also seemed somewhat uncertain.

"Elladan, I think he just offered to show us a safe path over the pass."

"That's how I interpret it." the Half-Elf agreed.

The griffon backed several steps away, half turned and looked questioningly at the Lady.

"Clearly he wants us to follow him." said Ellenion.

"Let us do so by all means." his mother decided. "If we cannot trust the Children of the Lord of the Skies then no one can be trusted." adding to the creature in Quenya: "Lead on, my friend, we follow."


	19. Out of the Pass

The Chief Griffon led them into the dizzying heights above the snow line by narrow twisting trails that had to be tread single file with the tired horses on leads.

Culuros had a slightly glazed look in his eye, as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening to him. Cemendur sympathized wholeheartedly. A Warg attack was nothing out of the ordinary but rescue by mythical winged beasts most definitely was.

The Chief Griffon padded softly along just in front of the Lady Beruthiel at the head of their little column. But several of his subjects, hippogriffs and wyverns, were in advance of him, and several more trailed behind Ereinion, bringing up the rear, and others were wing-borne, passing and re-passing overhead, silhouetted against the stars.

"Ah. Just as I thought. We are heading for the Hallow." Ellenion said suddenly in the peculiarly quiet yet carrying tones characteristic of Rangers.

"Hallow?" Rumil echoed uncertainly.

"Built by my ancestors when they first came to Middle Earth and dedicated to Manwe, Ancala (1) and Varda." the Ranger explained. "We'll be safe from Wargs or any other creature of the Shadow there."

The precarious ways brought them at last to a broad ascending stair, its low wide steps dusted with windblown snow and guarded at intervals by winged statues modeled on their curious guides. When they passed between the great columns of the Hallow the cold wind that had chilled them throughout the ascent was cut off as if by solid walls.

Within the outer file of cyclopean columns was a second row of shorter, slimmer bluestone pillars crowned by capitals in the form of roosting eagles enclosing a vast oblong of intricately patterned tesserae. The stars and new moon shone down on them bright and clear and the air seemed perceptibly warmer.

"Let's get some rest." Beruthiel said crisply.

Her sons and the Elven twins promptly began spreading their blankets, and after a moment the Gondor Men followed suit. As he settled himself on yet another hard stone floor Cemendur saw a griffon fold itself down nearby, paws curled catlike beneath, it's eagle head tucked under a wing. He closed his own eyes taking that last vision with him into sleep.

--

The Councilor woke some hours later to the morning sun shining between two pillars at the eastern end of the Hallow. The griffons, hippogriffs and wyverns were still there, in fact there seemed to be more of them than last night, all looking attentively at the Lady Beruthiel as she stood talking seriously with a Great Eagle looming over her.

"I would offer to carry your party to the foot of the pass, Little Sister," it was saying, "but I don't think your horses would enjoy the journey."

"Indeed they would not." the Lady agreed.

"We'll be all right, Gwaihir, the Eldest of Manwe's Children has agreed to lead us over the mountains by the paths his folk use."

"I just hope they know we Men and our horses are not quite so surefooted as they." Ereinion put in mildly.

The Eagle managed somehow to frown worriedly. "I will see that they do." he turned his head to address a series of harsh cries to the Chief Griffon.

The asperity of the creature's answer required no translation.

"He knows." Beruthiel said, eyes glinting amusement.

"So he says." Gwaihir agreed ruefully.

Cemendur certainly hoped so. He looked curiously around their unexpected refuge. The mosaic floor was patterned with the stars and constellations of Varda. A raised hearth stood cold and empty in the center of the great, roofless hall hedged by double rows of columns to the north and south but open to the east and the west. Suddenly an obscure bit of ancient lore read before he left on this journey surfaced.

"This is Menelmar," he whispered awed, "the Hall of Heaven. Built by Soronumen last Lord of Ondosto in Numenor and first Prince of Egladil in Middle Earth."

"That's right." Ellenion, Soronumen's direct descendant, looked at him interestedly. "I wouldn't have thought our Southern kin would still remember so much about us."

Cemendur shook his head. "Nor do we. I saw the name written in a loremaster's list long buried in the archives of the White Tower."

The young prince shrugged, unperturbed. "We remember little lore about the Southern Kingdom either. It is only to be expected, we went our separate ways long ago."

And Gondor, Cemendur was becoming more and more convinced, had gone the wrong way. The question now became could that error be amended, or had the Southern Kingdom fallen so far as to be unable to ever rise again?

--

The remainder of their journey over the mountains was bone chilling in every sense of the words. The snowy heights were bitter cold and they had with them no fuel for fires. And their road lay along narrow ways above dizzying drops, including one appalling transit of a sword-edge ridge with great gulfs yawning on either side. On the fourth day they finally began to descend, passing from the eternal winter of the high peaks to the warmth of summer in the lands below.

The Chief Griffon and his followers left them just above the tree-line and the Lady Beruthiel thanked them like the queen she was, in formal Quenya. They bowed their eagle heads to her, unfurled their great wings and spiraled upward to fly back to their icy eyries in the distant heights. The weary party of Men and Half-Elves watched them go, then continued down the wooded slopes to the town of Oldford at the crossing of the Anduin.

--

The town was a humble Osgiliath of narrow wooden houses enclosed within a pallisade of logs and divided by the great river. The two halves were joined by a wide wooden bridge on log piles with a large hall, also of wood, on its north side clusters of gable roofed chambers clinging to its sides. This was the house of Grimbeorn son of Beorn, chief of the Men of the Anduin Vale.

He was a big Man, tall and broad and swarthy skinned like the Men of Old Rhudaur on the other side of the mountains, with thick black hair and a heavy black beard. He greeted the three Rangers and their Half-Elven kin like old friends and frowned darkly over their account of the Warg attack.

"I hope you are right, Eagle-Sister, and they were after Elladan and Elrohir." he said when the story ended.

"Thank you very much." Elladan said dryly.

"I mean," the Man explained patiently, "that we are all in serious trouble if the mountain Wargs are going to make a regular practice of attacking parties in the Pass."

"Well there are a good many less of them then there were. Hopefully they've learned their lesson." Elrohir said cheerfully.

"That party of Dwarves got through safely enough," the Lady added reassuringly, "I doubt it will happen again."

"Let us hope so!" said Grimbeorn with emphasis.

They spent the night in his hall, on wooden floors this time softened by mattresses stuffed with straw. The party split up early the next morning; the Elven twins continuing eastward towards Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain beyond and the Gondor Men and the Mortal twins turning south to follow the western bank of the great river to the borders of Rohan. But the Lady Beruthiel intended to stay in Oldford for a time, to continue her talks with Grimbeorn and his chief men.

"Now, Berya," Elladan told her seriously as they made their farewells at the door of the hall, "I want you to promise me you will not venture into the Pass alone."

She gave him an innocent look that would have done credit to Cemendur's five year old great granddaughter. "Why, Elladan, do you really think me so reckless?"

"Yes!" answered the two Half-Elves - and her sons - in emphatic chorus.

The Lady laughed. "Truly I'm not so mad as all that. Very well, Elladan, you have my promise. But I still think you and your brother were the Warg's intended prey, not me." She looked thoughtful. "Though I don't supposed they'd have minded getting me as well. I'll recruit a few of our Watchers to accompany me back, just in case."

All four Men breathed sighs of relief.

"I remember Prince Armegil telling us of the strong wills of the Isildurieni." Cemendur observed to Ellenion as they rode out the western gate of the town and turned south.

"My uncle has a gift for understatement." the young Man replied dryly. "Willful and stubborn as Isildur's sons undoubtedly are, his daughters are much, much worse."

Remembering the little Princess Niphredil and her formidable grandmother the Lady Ellemir, Cemendur found himself inclined to agree.


	20. The Gladden Fields

The vales of the Anduin were well peopled with Men, both of the swarthy Easterling type and the fair haired descendants of the Northmen. the Vale folk dwelt in pallisaded villages surrounded by a patchwork of fields, pastureland and little woods. The country was tolerably familiar to Gondor but the young princes, rather startlingly, knew it firsthand having, Ellenion said, escorted an aged aunt many times on journeys over the mountains.

Cemendur was less surprised than he might have been. Judging by the Lady Ellemir elderly ladies of the Northern Dunedain were very different from their southern counterparts.

On the third day they came to the Gladden marshes, all green with rush and reed, and a-shimmer with the yellow iris that earned both marsh and its river that fed the name of the Golden Water. Ereinion and Ellenion rode right into the treacherous bog-land, apparently unconcerned.

Cemendur and Rumil exchanged resigned looks and followed trusting that their Ranger companions, as usual, knew what they were doing. Apparently they did for they led the Gondor Men along a winding track of solid ground, little different to the inexperienced eye from the reedy marsh that flanked it. a curve of the path brought them close to the edge of the broad Anduin.

Ereinion raised a hand for a halt, then beckoned Cemendur forward. "There," he said quietly, pointing, "across the river."

The eastern bank was fringed with iris and reed but the ground rose above it in long slopes to the dark edge of the Mirkwood. Between river and wood was a grassy mound, so perfectly circular that it could only be Men's work, with a white standing stone on its flattened top.

Cemendur knew at once what it must be. "Isildur's How." he breathed.

"So called though he himself does not lie there," Isildur's descendant agreed, "only the Men of his escort, and his three elder sons."

"Far from their own folk," Cemendur said sadly, "forgotten and neglected."

"Not at all." said Ellenion. "The How marks the southern limit of the Beorning's land east of the River. They say no Orc dares to pass it. And every Midwinter Eve they light the sunfire beneath the standing stone and watch out the night beside it."

"And of course we Rangers pay our respects from time to time as well." Ereinion turned his horse's head back into the marsh. "Come, we have a little ways more to go."

Go where? Cemendur wondered.

--

Ereinion disappeared around a clump of alders, followed by Ellenion, then Cemendur himself rounded the trees and reined to a halt so abrupt that Rumil's horse nearly collided with Culuros' rump.

There, on the other side of a strip of sparkling water, was a cobbled market square fringed by a semi-circle of child sized buildings with whitewashed walls, reed thatched roofs and little round doors and windows. Cottages of the same small size stood on nearby islets, just right for the Little People poling their flat bottomed boats along the channels of slow moving water between.

Cemendur remembered to close his mouth. Seeing the twins dismount he and Rumil followed suit.

A boat shot towards them, circling round the large island with the cobbled square to bump gently against the moist bank in front of them. A Little Man jumped out. The squint wrinkles round his eyes and stubbly beard made it clear this was no child, though far too short for a Dwarf. He was dressed all in bright rush green but with unshod and outsized, hairy feet.(1)

"Greetings Carloman." Ellenion said pleasantly.

The Little Man frowned up at him. "So it is you Padfoot, what're you got up as?"

Both princes laughed. "People keep asking us that." Ereinion complained.

"I shouldn't wonder, foolish gear for hard traveling that is."

"We are on an embassage and must do our folk credit." explained Ellenion.

The Little Man shrugged, "Whatever you say." Heglanced behind them. "Brought those big horses of yours again I see. Staying the night?"

"If we may."

"Of course, you can sleep in the Alehouse as always. Mind you'll be expected to pay the usual fee!"

--

The Alehouse turned out to be the largest of the buildings off the market square. Beams of bent alderwood formed a ceiling high enough for the Men to stand upright and the long common room had a rush strewn clay floor, crowded with miniature trestle tables and benches that filled with Little Folk. Lamp and fire were lit as the setting sun cast the long shadows of the mountains to darken the lands below.

The 'fee' it turned out was news from the world outside the marshes. Sitting cross-legged on the rushes Ellenion began with an account of their battle against the mountain Wargs.

The Little Ones listened wide eyed but when he finished an elderly man sitting close to the central hearth gave a little snort. "Got to expect that sort of thing if you insist on stravanging about the Wild instead of staying home where you belong."

"True enough, grandfather," Ellenion replied courteously. "but at least there will be fewer Wargs now to trouble you folk east of the mountains."

The old man grunted, unconvinced, and Ellenion went on recount his mother's concerns about the growing Orc population to much sober shaking of heads among his audience. Finally he spoke of Elladan and Elrohir's errand and the quarrel between the Wood Elves and Mountain Dwarves.

This elicited much rolling of eyes among the Little Folk and a few chuckles. "No doubt Elrond's sons will smooth things over as usual," said Carloman acidly, "but why those people have to make trouble over every little thing -!"

"Which people?" Ereinion asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Both of them!" was the robust answer. "Could use a little good Hobbit sense they could!"

"I agree," said Ellenion, "and so I suspect would Elladan and Elrohir."

--

The next morning the Little People produced a pair of rafts large enough to carry two horses apiece and four of their own to help pole them through the winding waterways past a second village and islets planted with grain and vegetables and a perfect half-sized mill beside a swift running channel. Finally they reached the semi-solid ground on the other side of the Gladden mouth.

After bidding farewell to their Halfling ferrymen the four travelers mounted their horses and continued southward. "My Lord," Cemendur said quietly to Ereinion, glancing over his shoulder to be sure Rumil was out of earshot. "being on the west bank of the Anduin as we are, will we not have to pass through the Wood of Lothlorien?"

"Indeed we will." the prince glanced sidelong at Cemendur, read the dismay on his face and smiled. "Don't worry, we Rangers have the permission of the Lord of Lorien to pass through his country at need."

That was all very well but what about the Sorcerous Lady of Lorien? would even the protection of her Lord be sufficient safeguard against her wiles?

--

NOTES:

1. Carloman is, of course, a Hobbit - of pure Stoorish stock - undoubtedly descended from the remnant of Smeagol's people who took refuge in the marshes for safety after the rise of Dol Guldur.


	21. The Golden Wood

Entering the Golden Wood was like diving into a deep pool, leaving behind the familiar element of air for the alien one of water. Lorien too felt alien, like another world and one not meant for Men. The twins seemed quite unaffected by the eerie atmosphere of the wood with its still, gold tinged air and listening silence.

Cemendur did his best to seem as unperturbed, but he feared with little success. Rumil didn't even try to affect calm, starting nervously at every leaf fall.

"This is the Rangers' accustomed path." Ellenion told him kindly, clearly trying to reassure. "We're not likely to see any of the Elves - we usually don't."

Cemendur found himself wondering why and how frequently Rangers of the North passed through the Golden Wood. "Do your people often come this way?"

"We used to," Ellenion answered readily enough, "to keep watch on the borders of Mordor but Aragorn's new Ithilien Rangers have relieved us of that task."

"And well that they did," said his brother, "we were spread far to thinly."

"How long -" Cemendur began.

"Since the time of the Morgul Wars." Ereinion smiled grimly. "We have a particular interest in the Witch King. But now that Sauron has returned a proper watch would take far more Men than we can spare."

"The Watchers always came by the same road we did, over the High Pass then down the west bank of the Anduin." Ellenion explained. "We thought the Rohirrim far too likely to recognize us for what we were if they saw our Men passing regularly through their lands."

"So it's not just the country folk of Eriador you guard in secret." Cemendur said quietly.

"We hinder the designs of the Enemy wherever and whenever we may." Ereinion answered.

--

They crossed the Celebrant by means of a bridge of intricately carved, ivory hued wood. Rumil breathed an audible sigh of relief when they reached the other bank. Cemendur just managed not to join him. The forest south of the river was identical to the eye with its rows of tall mallorn trees but the eerie gold tinted silence, like crystalized honey, was gone. They were back in their own Middle Earth again for which Cemendur was deeply grateful.

He saw the young princes had perceived the Gondor Men's relief and were gently amused by it. Either custom or their Elven blood had clearly inured them against the eerie strangeness of the wood. Ellenion caught his eye and smiled. "There's a Ranger shelter just off the path, we'll sleep there tonight."

It proved to be a sort of bower woven from the interlacing boughs of three living trees its floor of springy turf lumpy with roots, however Cemendur was so exhausted from the strain of Lorien's eerie atmosphere that he fell directly asleep regardless.

Awakening some hours later he found the two princes had disappeared. Rumil, blinked awake at almost the same moment and they exchanged a look of bewildered consternation.

Creeping out of the shelter, drawn sword in hand, for a look around Cemendur controlled a start as a tall fair haired form clad in soft greens and greys materialized at the edge of the glade.

"Greetings -" it began. Then the dark shadows under the trees formed themselves into a Man cloaked in glimmering night, the long gleaming blade in his hand touching the Elf's throat.

"Greetings, Haldir." Ereinion said softly, chidingly: "You know better than to surprise a Ranger my friend."

"I am not alone." the Elf replied, visibly nettled, and four more Elves materialized around them, arrows knocked.

"Nor am I." smiled Ereinion nodding towards Cemendur, or rather the shelter. Turning the Councilor saw Ellenion kneeling on its roof, bow drawn.

He laughed gently. "We win this encounter, friend." jumped down and walked towards the Elves. "What brings you outside the bounds, Haldir?"

"I was sent by your aunt," the Elf replied, still looking a trifle ruffled, "she is angered you tried to pass through Lorien without paying your respects."

"Since we had strangers with us we thought it better not to intrude upon your dwellings." said Ereinion.

"If our dear aunt wanted to see us she might easily have come herself." Ellenion observed mildly.

"Must be in one of her grand moods." his twin answered.

Haldir's mouth twitched in what might have been a quickly suppressed smile. "She is, as I said, most indignant."

"And consequently standing on her dignity." said Ellenion.

"If we wanted to be difficult we might decide to stand on ours, and our right of free passage through the realm," Ereinion said with a smile, "but we will spare you that."

"For which I thank you heartily!" said the Elf with emphasis.

Both princes laughed. "And our companions?" asked Ellenion.

"Will come with you of course."

Cemendur winced, he'd been afraid of that.

--

The seat of the Lord and Lady of Lorien was a city of trees, giant mallorns tall as the towers of Minas Tirith, and all aglitter with the same soft blue lights that had illuminated the garth of Cristhoron.

Grassy tracks wound their way between great silver-gray tree boles, many hung with fragile hanging stairs spiraling upward into the canopy. To Cemendur's considerable relief their guides ignored these, leading them instead through a lacily fretted gate and down a flight of weathered steps into a green dell lit by ordinary yellow lamps with chairs and couches woven of white withies and set among banks of niphredil and elanor beside a sparkling brook singing softly to itself as it tumbled over polished stones.

A lady paced furiously beside the little stream. A tall Elven lady with night black hair rippling down her back and glimmering blue skirts swishing angrily about her feet. She whirled to glare fiercely at the twins and Cemendur caught his breath. Her face with its flashing dark blue eyes was fairer than that of Mortal Women yet it reminded him forcibly of another he had seen and recently at that.

"You little fiends! What are you hiding that you try to sneak past me?" the Lady stormed. You're going to Gondor, you must be. Has something happened to Aragorn -!"

"Don't talk nonsense, Aunt." Ereinion interrupted sharply. "If something happened to him we'd tell you, not try to hide it."

"All is well with Uncle Aragorn so far as we know." Ellenion added more gently. "So calm yourself, Aunt dear. A lady of your advanced years shouldn't allow herself to get so worked up."

The Lady laughed weakly. "No she shouldn't. I'm showing my Mortal side, as your mother would say, aren't I?" she sat down on one of the couches trembling slightly. Suddenly Cemendur placed the likeness. Someday the little Lady Niphredil might look much like this

"I'm sorry," she continued, "but when I heard you had passed through Lorien without coming to see me I got so frightened - it was foolish of me."

"It was." Ellenion agreed, sitting down next to her and taking her hand. "When have we ever tried to hide bad news from you? We passed through without a visit because we were not alone, and because we had no sure news yet to give you."

"You are going to see Aragorn aren't you?" she demanded

"We are." answered Ereinion. "This is Lord Cemendur of Gondor, and his man Rumil. They and another companion were sent by the Steward to find Aragorn's people. As you can see they succeeded." He turned to the Gondor Men. "This is Aragorn's betrothed wife, Arwen daughter of Elrond Half-Elven."

So they could have an Elven, or rather Half-Elven Queen. Whatever would the children be like? Cemendur bowed rather dazedly to the Lady. "It was the Steward's wish that we find and make alliance with the people of the Lord Aragorn, who is known in our land as Thorongil." he explained. "We had no suspicion he was Isildur's Heir - and to some the rightful King of Gondor."

"To some -!" she began angrily, again Ereinion interrupted her.

"Spare Lord Cemendur your displeasure, Aunt. He supports Aragorn's claim - but he cannot say what the Steward or the Council will do."

Cemendur blinked. Did he support the Lord Aragorn's claim? He realized with a kind of surprise that indeed he did. Gondor needed her King. Only by righting the ancient wrong done to the Heirs of Elendil could she hope to regain her lost glory - or even to survive.

"The decision whether or not to make his claim before the Lords of Gondor is Aragorn's alone," Ellenion was saying, "but he does not yet know he must make it."

"And won't until we bring him word of it." Ereinion shrugged. "So, as I said, we have no real news for you - yet."

Arwen quirked her lips wryly. "The fact that the Gondorim are now aware of Aragorn's existence and some among them would support his claim seems like news to me."

"But nothing is decided yet." Ellenion warned.

"So don't get your hopes up, Aunt, the matter is far from settled." Ereinion agreed.

--

Cemendur had been frightened in his cradle by eerie whispered tales of the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood but neverl until he was presented to them that morning had he heard their names: Celeborn of Doriath and Galadriel, sister of Finrod Felagund, Friend of Men. Both listed in the annals of Gondor among the Elven leaders of the Last Alliance. The Councilor mentally shook his head in dismay. The wisdom of the Men of the West had declined indeed if such fiendish stories could be repeated and believed about two of their people;s most ancient allies.

Eldritch and eerie the Golden Wood was, and not meant for Men, but there was no malice or evil sorcery for them to fear. Indeed the infamous Lady of the Wood had had proved the most perfect of hostesses welcoming her unexpected guests with a smile, an apology for their interrupted journey and a mild word of admonishment directed the Lady Arwen who was, it seemed, her granddaughter.

Rumil was clearly dazzled. He stared round eyed at the golden beauty of the Queen, his fears quite forgotten.

"You must forgive her, Aunt," Ellenion said easily to the Lady Galadriel, "you know how impulsive the Half-Elven can be." His blue-grey eyes glinted with amusement.

"I have known full Elves as quick tempered." the silver haired Lord of Lorien said mildly, with a sidelong look at his wife.

She looked right back at him. "As have I, my Lord, among my kin by marriage."

"Myself I always thought it came from the Mortal side of the family." said the Lady Arwen.

"Oh no," that was Prince Ereinion, "in the histories of the Elder Days it's always the Elves who let their tempers lead them into folly."

"All too true." said the Lady Galadriel, a little grimly.

"What of Turin?" Arwen challenged.

"He was the exception." answered her nephew.

The travelers joined the Lord and Lady of Lorien and their granddaughter for a breakfast of golden wavers and fruits both strange and familiar. "If Aragorn makes good his claim what then?" the Lord Celeborn asked, frowning. "Sauron's response to an Heir of Isildur on the throne of Gondor will be devastating."

The princes nodded grim agreement. "Elrond thinks that may work in our favor," Ellenion explained, "oft the hasty stroke goes astray, and the Enemy has not yet had time to fully rebuild his power."

"That is true," said the Lady Galadriel, "but the risk is still very great. His Orcs grow in number and the Dark Men of the South and East are quick return to their old allegiance."

"Indeed." said Ereinion. "Armegil fears he is already to strong for us to match him in the field."

"But Elrond disagrees," countered his brother, "he hopes with Aragorn to rally the Men of the West to the cause they may, in alliance with the Eldar, defeat the Dark Lord by attacking before he is secure in his power."

"A great gamble." the Lord Celeborn shook his head, clearly troubled. "I fear my son-in-law forgets we would be fighting not on a single front - as in the War of the Last Alliance - but on two."

"Three," Ereinion corrected, "Mordor, Dol Guldur and Angmar."

Celeborn nodded, accepting the correction. "Three fronts then. We will be spread very thin."

"At least Smaug is dead and there are now kingdoms of Men and Dwarves to guard the northeast." Ellenion offered.

"That is true. At least Thranduil need not fear attack from the north but there is still Dol Guldur." the Lord of Lorien crumbled a wafer between long, strong fingers. "The Men of the River Vales will stand with us whether there is a High King in Gondor or not," he said slowly, "but even so we will be hard pressed between the Nazgul in Dol Guldur and the Orcs and Wargs in the mountains. My fear is Men and Elves alike will be fully engaged on their separate fronts and unable to give aid to each other."

"That is Armegil's belief as well." Ereinion agreed.

"Yet the Dark Lord will only grow stronger," the Lady Arwen pointed out, "time is not on our side."

Her grandfather shook his head. "Now or later I fear this is a war we cannot win, Little One."

"Yet there is a way Sauron may be defeated," Ereinion said with calm conviction, "we have not yet seen it - but we will."

"Elrond believes the Return of the King and the union of the power of Men with that of the Elves is the answer." said his brother. "Armegil thinks differently. He foresees, dimly, the rise of some new power or unexpected ally."

Galadriel's white brow knit pensively. "I too have seen strange things in my Mirror. It may be well to wait. All has not yet been revealed."

"Yet a strong Gondor and renewed Arnor would be a great strength to the Free Peoples." Cemendur ventured.

"Indeed," Celeborn agreed, "if only they can be achieved without bringing Sauron's wrath down upon us all."


	22. Minas Tirith At Last

Cemendur grew more and more nervous as the party of travelers spiraled up the six lower levels of the White City. The young princes had pulled up their hoods to hide their faces, but the shimmering black velvet of their cloaks, glitter of the eagle broaches on their shoulders and sparkle of the jewels decorating the harness of their horses drew stares from the people in the streets. The Councilor paid little heed, being fully absorbed in trying to mentally order his discoveries into some semblance of a coherent narrative. It was proving difficult.

'Well, my Lord,' he rehearsed silently, 'to start with your faithful Captain Thorongil is in truth our rightful King; Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elendil's Heir. These young Men are his nephews, descended from Isildur on their mother's side and the Sorondili on their father's. They are come as hostages for the safety of your grandson Hurin who has chosen to take service with the Lord Aragorn's grandmother and regent.

'As for the alliance you hoped for, it seems it may not be unless we accept the Lord Aragorn as our King. Elrond Half-Elven strongly urges this but the Prince Armegil, Lord Aragorn's uncle and lieutenant, and the Lord of Lorien are opposed.

'And by the by, while we were in the Golden Wood we met the Lord Aragorn's intended wife, Arwen, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven and granddaughter to Celeborn and Galadriel who are Lord and Lady of Lorien - and quite pleasantly disposed towards Gondor despite all disfames to the contrary.'

Cemendur shuddered. There had to be some gentler, more gradual way of breaking all this news to Ecthelion - if only he could think of one!

--

The Steward of Gondor was in his privy chamber reading, or rather trying to read, a tall stack of reports from the outposts but his mind kept turning to his son. Denethor had been wounded by a black arrow while riding outside the eastern walls of Osgiliath. The Men with him had feared it was a Morgul dart and Denethor's condition when he was brought back to Minas Tirith seemed to confirm the worst.

Ecthelion had spent three dreadful nights sitting with his daughter-in-law by his son's sickbed, and heard from Denethor's delirious lips many things to distress and sadden him. Then Thorongil had arrived unexpectedly, having ridden through the night from Cair Andros immediately upon hearing the news. The great Captain was as skilled in healing as he was in strategy and he quickly assured Ecthelion that Denethor's escort was mistaken, his wound had been caused by an ordinary Orc arrow. Poisoned certainly but Thorongil knew simples that would counteract the venom. Denethor, he said, would make a full recovery. And his condition had indeed improved almost immediately. Just yesterday he had been released by the Healers to return to his own house and the care of his wife.

Yet Ecthelion remained fearful, unable to forget the fate of Boromir, the great Warrior Steward of Gondor. Wounded by a Morgul weapon he had withered away as quickly as one of the lesser Men of Middle Earth. If Thorongil were wrong and it had been a Morgul arrow Denethor would be fortunate to live long enough to see his little son come to manhood - and suffer bitterly for all that short time.

Worse still were the things Denethor had mumbled in his fevered wanderings. How, Ecthelion wondered unhappily, could his only son believe that Thorongil or any Man could ever replace him in his father's heart? It must be his fault that Denethor felt so - clearly he had failed to communicate to his son just how important and dear to him he was. Somehow he would have to amend that failure in the few years they had left together, but it seemed inevitable that the first step must be to send Thorongil away and Ecthelion was not at all sure Gondor would survive such a loss. If Denethor - Valar forbid it! - truly had only a brief time to live then young Boromir would need the great captain desperately.

The door opened, startling Ecthelion out of his troubled thoughts. "Forgive me, my Lord," the servant said apologetically, "but you did not answer my knock. I would not have disturbed you but the Lord Cemendur is returned and you left orders you were to be informed immediately -"

"Yes, yes indeed." the Steward got stiffly to his feet. If Cemendur and Hurin had succeeded in their mission then they might be bringing back a solution for at least some of his troubles.

--

Ecthelion entered the small audience chamber to find a visibly and uncharacteristically nervous Cemendur standing next to two Men, or so Ecthelion assumed, shrouded in glimmering black hooded cloaks. But of his grandson Hurin he saw no sign and his heart sank.

The three Men bowed as he crossed to the chair of state and sat. He looked inquiringly at Cemendur. "Welcome home, my friend. How went your mission?"

The Councilor took a deep breath. "We had a measure of success, my Lord. Our Northern kin still dwell in the Lost Realm. Here are two of them come back with me." he turned and bowed to the Man beside him.

The stranger threw back his hood and Ecthelion was instantly struck by his resemblance to Thorongil in coloring, bearing and most of all the smoking glance he threw at Cemendur. "My Lord Ecthelion," he said formally, "I am Ereinion son of Thorondil, and this is my brother Ellenion." the second Man had also unhooded himself, revealing a face identical to his brother's. "We are sent by the Steward and Regent of Arnor, with messages for our kinsman Aragorn son of Arathorn Isildur's heir."

There was a moment of tingling silence. Ecthelion sat motionless as pieces of information, misunderstood and misinterpreted until now, fell into new patterns. Finally he got to his feet and bowed. "You are welcome to Minas Tirith my Lords." he said formally. "Your kinsman is, I believe, here in the Tower. Permit me to find him for you."

The elder prince, Ereinion, bowed his assent and the old Steward headed for the door, paused and turned. "By the way, where is my grandson?"

Both young Isildurioni looked at Cemendur who looked distinctly unhappy. "The Lord Hurin chose to remain in the North, swearing service to the Chieftain of the Dunedain through his regent."

"I see," Ecthelion said dryly "thank you."

--

'Thorongil' was exactly where the Steward had expected him to be at this hour, in a side room of the great library his head bent over an ancient tome. The Captain looked up as Ecthelion entered and started to rise. The Steward forstalled him with a low bow - as to a King.

"My Lord Aragorn."

He went still, as he always did when taken by surprise. To most he would have seemed expressionless but Ecthelion's practiced eye detected shock, chagrin and finally resignation. But no fear, for which he was deeply grateful.

At last Aragorn sighed. "How did you find out?"

"I sent Men into the North to find your people."

Isildur's Heir smiled wryly. "Cemendur and Hurin's secret mission." he guessed."Clearly they succeeded."

"Cemendur brought two kinsmen of yours back with him, bearing messages from your Steward and Regent in the North. Ereinion and Ellenion, sons of Thorondil, they named themselves." Aragorn's eyes widened. "Are they not your kin? Certainly they look it."

"Oh yes indeed, my cousin's sons." he shook his head wonderingly. "And the last time I saw them they were no older than your grandson."

"You have given us twenty years, my Lord." said Ecthelion, then suddenly, urgently. "Why come to us like this, in disguise?"

"I wanted to see the Southern Kingdom." Aragorn answered simply. "Then you told us Gondor thought the line of Kings extinct, and I decided it was safe to stay a while."

"Safe." the Steward echoed bitterly.

Aragorn rounded the table to put his hands firmly and affectionately on the older Man's shoulders. "I have always trusted you, Ecthelion," he said softly, "but you would have refused my service had you known who I was - and there were things that needed doing."

"The alliance with Rhovanion." Ecthelion smiled crookedly. "The watch on Mordor. The Ithilien Rangers." he stopped, closed his eyes. "It was a Morgul arrow wasn't it?"

"Yes, but do not fear - "

"I know. The Kings of Old had the power to heal such wounds."

"An inheritance from Luthien, our foremother." Aragorn said matter-of-factly, adding gently; "Denethor will recover and live as long as any of his fathers, I promise you."

"Thank you." Ecthelion just managed to get the words out. The younger Man's casual reference to Luthien, his ancestress, had suddenly brought home full realization of just who and what 'Thorongil' truly was: Isildur's Heir, Elendil's son of Gondor and Arnor, descended through the Kings of Numenor from the Chiefs of the Fathers of Men, High Kings of the Noldor and Sindar, and a divine Maia older than time. Rightful King of the Realms in Exile.

"You say Ereinion and Ellenion have messages for me?" the Aragorn asked, rousing him.

"Yes, and I can guess the substance of one of them at least." Ecthelion looked up at his King. "I sent Cemendur and Hurin to find and make alliance with your people if they could."

"Alliance!" Aragorn shook his head, troubled. "I fear that's impossible, Ecthelion, you do not know our position in the North."

"And your news, my Lord is some twenty years out of date." the Steward reminded him. "Perhaps we should both hear what your young kinsmen have to say before discussing this matter further."

"Very well. Take me to them."


	23. The Lord Aragorn's Answer

The Lord Aragorn came to a full stop in the doorway surveying his young nephews in amusement and disbelief.

"Don't say it." Lord Ereinion begged.

The King's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Our uncle's idea I take it?"

"Who else?" asked Ellenion with overtones of resignation.

Ecthelion looked his interest: "Ah yes, perhaps now at last I may learn the name of this famous uncle of yours, my Lord Aragorn?"

The King turned to the Steward, smiling slightly. "Elrond Half-Elven, twin brother of Elros Tar-Minyatur and sometime Herald to the Last High King of the Noldor."

Ecthelion blinked and Aragorn's smile deepened, enjoying the reaction. "Elrond has been fostering and educating Isildur's Heirs since Valandil's time. Me he had almost from infancy as my father died when I was very young."

"Slain by Orcs." Ecthelion said heavily, remembering.

The Lord Aragorn nodded. "As I told you." He looked quizzically at the four Men around him. They stood, waiting. No one, including Ecthelion, was going to move or sit until the King did so.

Realizing this Aragorn chose a window seat for himself and gestured, inviting the others to help themselves to the benches and chairs lining the walls. He turned to Cemendur. "How did you come to find my people, Councilor? They would certainly have avoided you if they could."

Cemendur smiled wryly. "They did indeed. We first heard of the Rangers from an innkeeper in Bree. You know Bree, my Lord?"

"Very well. So it was old Butterbur who put you on to us?"

Cemendur nodded. "He tried to point out three Rangers at the inn but they left, quite precipitously, before we could lay eyes on them."

"Not that it did us any good." Ellenion told his uncle ruefully.

"Far from it." Cemendur agreed. "Master Butterbur's description, and the sudden disappearance of your kinsmen, my Lord, wetted my interest. I decided to continue north to Fornost in the hope of encountering some of these 'Rangers'."

"Which you did." said Aragorn resignedly. The Councilor nodded. "Your grace's cousin, the Lord Belecthor, decided to show himself to try to convince us our quest was in vain."

Aragorn visualized Belecthor, with his kingly height and Numenorean features, denying the continued existence of Dunedain in the North and grimaced. "Of course he failed."

"They were heading straight for Gwathlad," Ellenion said, a little defensively, "Uncle felt seeing a holding would be more dangerous to our secret than seeing him."

Cemendur shrugged: "But of course the moment we laid eyes on The Lord Belecthor we knew our quest had succeeded." he turned to Ecthelion. "His grace's kinsman bears a striking resemblance to statues of the Old Kings. It was impossible for him to be anything but a Dunedain, and of noble blood though we did not guess at first how noble."

Aragorn looked at him sharply, noting the Councilor's use of the kingly style, and frowned.

"The Lord Belecthor would have sent us straight back to Gondor," Cemendur continued, "but happily Prince Armegil chanced to be at Gwathlad and he agreed to hear my embassage." he smiled at the King. "And once we had seen him, my Lord, there could be no doubt at all that we had found not only your people but your kin."

Aragorn returned the smile ruefully and explained to Ecthelion. "Armegil is my father's brother, there is a very strong resemblance." He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "And what exactly was the substance of this embassage?"

There was a long moment's silence. As it became plain Ecthelion didn't intend to answer the question Cemendur stepped in. "Our instructions were to seek out, and if possible establish an alliance with our surviving kin. Your grace's sword has been of inestimable value to Gondor, the Steward hoped to gain more such aid and in return to make amends for many centuries of neglect."

"I see." Aragorn said softly, eyes on Ecthelion who would not meet them. "And what did my Uncle Armegil say to this proposal?"

"A gracious but firm refusal." Cemendur admitted, explaining to Ecthelion. "The Prince told us that the Dunedain of the North had gone into hiding at the end of the Witch Wars so that the enemy might think them destroyed and spare the simple folk under their protection further harm. In secrecy and disguise they have continued to defend their own, including Gondor."

"Arminas." the Steward said flatly.

"And others we have known naught of." Cemendur agreed. "Prince Armegil believes an open alliance with Gondor would call down the Enemy's wrath on both realms to their ruin." he looked again at the King. "We accepted his judgment and agreed to keep silent. But the Lord Elrond at Rivendell took a very different view -"

"I am well acquainted with my uncle's opinions in the matter." Aragorn assured him drily.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but the Lord Steward is not," Cemendur said respectfully."Elrond of Rivendell made it clear the only way to establish the alliance you desire, my Lord, was for Gondor to amend her errors of old and accept her rightful king. Unlike Prince Armegil he believes that with the race of Men united behind the King of the West and allied to the remaining Eldar Sauron may be finally defeated."

Aragorn shook his head. "My uncle is over-optimistic."

"That was also the opinion of the Lord of Lorien," Cemendur admitted. "Like Prince Armegil he foresaw great danger in any such union."

"The Lord of Lorien!" the Steward echoed astonished and alarmed.

"We passed through the Golden Wood on our return journey." Cemendur explained. "Its lord is Celeborn of Doriath, our ally of old, and distant kin to the Lord Aragorn. Lorien is not a land for Men, but its evil repute is quite undeserved. We met with naught but courtesy and kindness there."

"My Uncle Celeborn has fought the Shadow through three ages of the World," Aragorn said quietly, "his judgment is not to be lightly discarded."

"We found also at Rivendell, your grace's Steward and Regent for the North the Lady Ellemir." Cemendur told him. "She, upon hearing both our embassage and the Lord Elrond's advice, declared herself unable to make a decision that belonged to the King's grace alone, and urged us to return to Gondor to make presentation to you."

"As you have done." said Aragorn. "But where is Hurin? Safe I hope."

"Quite safe, my Lord." Cemendur assured him, a little wryly. "Hurin chose to take service with the Lady your grandmother in requital for the service your grace has given Gondor."

"I see." Aragorn said thoughtfully, eyeing his nephews. "I thank you, my Lord Cemendur, both for your pains and your silence. But now I must discuss these matters privately with the Lord Steward."

"Yes," Ecthelion agreed, recalling his own authority, "leave us, Cemendur, and see that the Lords Ereinion and Ellenion are suitably housed if you would."

Rising the Councilor bowed to the air between Steward and King, before ushering the two younger Men out.

There was a long silence, finally broken by Aragorn "Why, Ecthelion? Why after twenty years this sudden interest in my origins?"

"Because, my Lord, I have not much longer to live and fear what might happen between you and my son after I am gone."

Aragorn shook his head. "Denethor is not my friend but he would never do me actual harm without cause, and that I will not give him."

Ecthelion smiled crookedly. "The harm I fear would be entirely to himself. My son has not the gift for making himself loved which you, my Lord, have in abundance. No, he would not harm you. But he would slight and insult you as he always has and though you might suffer such treatment patiently your friends and followers will not."

Aragorn thought of Hirluin, his lieutenant, and any number of others and sighed. "Yes, I see, even without my will there would be trouble. But you need not fear, Ecthelion, I must leave Gondor soon. Already I have lingered far longer than is wise."

The Steward blinked. "Leave?" he echoed, a little blankly. Then said cautiously: "Your grace does not intend to lay your claim before the Council?"

"Certainly not." Aragorn answered quietly. "Gondor cannot afford a second Kinstrife, not with Sauron on her borders. And you and I both know there are many who would never accept Isildur's Heir as King."

The Steward looked at him levelly. "Fewer than you might think, my Lord."

"But enough." Neither Man said Denethor's name aloud, it lay unspoken between them. "We cannot risk civil war in Gondor. Not when she is all that stands between Sauron and the West."

"No." Ecthelion agreed. Was it relief in his heart, or disappointment, or some strange combination of both? "And of course you are eager to return to your own people."

"The Gondorim too are my people," The King replied softly, "and I promise you I will never forget it."


	24. Consequences

"I will make no claim on Gondor." Aragorn told his nephews bluntly.

The two young Men looked unsurprised. "We thought that would be your decision." said Ereinion. Beruthiel's sons had been lodged in one of the guesthouses built against the Citadel's curtain wall. The three Men sat over wine in a round tower chamber whose windows looking east over the city to the Mountains of Shadow.

"You understand what this means for our people?" Aragorn demanded, almost harshly.

Ellenion nodded calmly. "To remain in hiding and gradually dwindle into the simple hunter folk we pretend to be."

"Better that then falling to a new Witch War and taking our country folk and the Men of Rhudaur with us." said Ereinion, adding gently; "Never fear, Uncle, our people will accept your decision."

"I don't think any of us has truly believed Arnor would be restored for many a long year." Ellenion said quietly.

"The world has changed." Aragorn agreed. "Men have changed. The time of the Kings, and of the Dunedain has passed."

There was a long moment's silence as they contemplated that truth, then Ellenion said dryly: "I am glad it is you and not we who will have to explain that to Elrond."

Aragorn's mouth quirked ruefully. "I am not looking forward to that conversation." he admitted and turned the subject. "What news of the North?"

Ereinion shrugged. "We lose ground. Slowly but surely we are being driven back. As ever, since the last Flood Year."

Aragorn's face tightened. "I doubt your presence would have made much difference, Uncle." Ellenion said kindly.

He nodded weary agreement. "What could I have done that our grandmother and Armegil did not? Angmar still grows?"

Ereinion nodded. "Raiding bands of Hill Men have struck as far south as the Lone Lands. Armegil fears we will soon have to pull back the Line yet again."

"And Orcs are multiplying again in the Mountains." said Ellenion. "Mother crossed with us to talk to Grimbeorn about increasing his patrols."

Aragorn nodded again, then frowned. "Beruthiel? What of your father?"

The two young Men exchanged a speaking glance. It was Ereinion who answered; "Our father is dead, Uncle. Thirteen years now."

Aragorn's eyes closed in pain. "Anybody else?" he asked tightly.

Another look passed between the twins. "No other family." said Ellenion and hesitated before continuing reluctantly: "Bregolas, Diriel and Ondohir have also fallen, (1) and Borthand died six years ago. Borondir leads the Men of Rhudaur now."

"Time I went home, and past time." Aragorn said grimly. "I have done almost all I came here to do." he grimaced slightly. "Certainly I cannot stay now that I am known."

--

Ecthelion found Cemendur standing in the embrasure at the tip of the great stone pier that bisected the city, looking eastward to the lowering Mountains of Shadow. "The Lord Aragorn has refused to press his claim. He will not risk civil war in Gondor."

"I feared that would be his answer." the Councilor sighed. "It is true the danger is very great, not only of a new Kinstrife but of assault from the Dark Land." he turned to look Ecthelion in the eye. "Yet it is also true that Gondor declines, and will continue to fail until she returns to her true allegiance."

"I know." the Steward agreed softly. "But the King is right, now is not the time. Someday perhaps..."

"A day you and I will not live to see."

"No. Nor my son either I fear."

Cemendur looked at his master and friend thoughtfully. He knew Denethor's temper as well as Ecthelion did. "The Dunedain of the North are long lived," he offered. "the Line of Isildur especially so. Our King will outlive us all. Perhaps in young Boromir's time -"

"If there is still a Gondor for my grandson to rule when his time comes it will be due in no small part to Thorongil - to the King." Ecthelion broke in bitterly. "He has given us much, and it seems there is nothing at all that we may give him in return!"

Cemendur, remembering the Northern Rangers' long labor in defense of unknowing, ungrateful Men - including the Gondorim - could find nothing to say. Then Ecthelion's expression changed. "No." he said softly. "There is one thing."

--

NOTES:

1. These are of course not the only Ranger casualties of the last twenty years, just those who were personal friends of Aragorn.


	25. A Farewell Gift

"My Lord?"

Aragorn looked up from the papers he was sorting to see the Steward standing in the doorway of his little workroom. "You shouldn't call me that, Ecthelion."

The old Man lifted questioning eyebrows. "Why not, my Lord, when there is none but you and I to hear?" He came in, closing the door behind him. An unnecessary precaution as the guardroom beyond was quite empty at this hour of the night.

"Because I am not your Lord." Aragorn replied. "Rather it is I who have sworn an oath to you."

Ecthelion shook his head "To Gondor rather. I know you have chosen not to claim our allegiance but that doesn't change the blood in your veins. You are still my superior in rank, my Lord, descended from a far older and higher lineage than I can claim."

"You Gondorim are overconcerned with blood and rank." Aragorn said disapprovingly. He sighed: "At least there is no need for such ceremony. Sit down Ecthelion!" The old Man smiled as he settled himself on a bench against the wall. "My aged bones thank you - my Lord!" he said, smile broadening at his King's exasperated glare. "If we are over conscious of the claims of blood it is because so little of the High Numenorean strain survives among us. My House and Adrahil's are the most ancient left in Gondor and they are no older than the realm itself."

His eyes unfocused, looking far beyond the stone wall papered with maps. "We lost many of our noblest to the Kinstrife or the Plague and the highest in the land, twenty mighty Houses who could trace their lineage back to Numenor and even to Beleriand, departed Gondor when Meneldur denied his allegiance to the High King."

"So you remember that." Aragorn said softly.

"It is not written in the common histories but our Loremasters remember." Ecthelion grimaced. "We have been taught to call it treachery, but the true treachery was Meneldur's. Gondor has been tainted from her very beginning - and we have paid and are still paying a bitter price for it." He looked levelly at the King. "Cemendur believes only a return to our rightful allegiance can save Gondor from her long decline - and I find myself agreeing with him."

Aragorn shook his head in denial. "No, Ecthelion, in this I am right. The time for Kings is passed."

"Say rather that it has not yet come." countered the Steward. "I agree with you, my King, to declare yourself now would bring disaster upon us all and an end to all hope." His head lifted, eyes gleaming with a strange light, and his voice rang with deep tones of prophecy. "Your time is not passed but yet to come, King Elessar. You will return to Gondor in our darkest and most desperate hour and you will save us from the Shadow in the East and the shadow on our hearts."

The Steward's eyes closed and his body sagged. Aragorn was around the writing table in an instant to catch him by the shoulders and keep him from tumbling to the floor. "Ecthelion!"

Blue veined lids blinked open. "Strange," the old Man whispered huskily, "I have not had a foreseeing in many years - and never before so strongly."

Aragorn leaned him carefully back against the wall and poured a tumbler of strong spirits from a bottle in a standing cupboard. "Drink this, slowly."

He watched with concern as Ecthelion carefully sipped the liquor, drained the tumbler and returned it to his King with a challenging look. "Well, my Lord, what do you make of that?"

Aragorn sighed, almost as if defeated. "When I was a child I had a dream of coming at the head of an army to the rescue of a white city of seven circles." he admitted and shook his head helplessly. "But how that vision - or yours - may come to pass I do not see. But I promise you, Ecthelion, if Gondor ever does stand in need of my aid she will have it."

"Thank you, my Lord." the Steward said, satisfied. He looked at the parchments heaped upon the writing table: "A late hour for paperwork."

"I am putting the business of the Guard in order for my successor."

"And who am I to put in your place?" Ecthelion wondered ruefully. It was a rhetorical question but Aragorn had an answer:

"Denethor."

The Steward blinked in surprise. "My son?"

The King sat down on a corner of the table and faced him seriously. "There is nothing wrong with Denethor's grasp of strategy and logistics, and if he does not inspire love at least he commands respect and obedience. There is less need now for a battle leader at the head of the Citadel Guard. Should Denethor ever have need of such he will have my young nephews to call upon."

Ecthelion blinked again. "You mean to leave them here? And what makes you think Denethor will work any better with them than with you?"

"Of course Ellenion and Ereinion will stay in Minas Tirith - as long as Hurin remains with us in the North." Aragorn said almost impatiently. "Surely, Ecthelion, you realize that is why they were sent?"

"I require no hostages from you, my King."

Aragorn smiled wryly. "Your daughter may feel differently. And I know Denethor will! But I have another reason for desiring my nephews to stay. An open alliance is impossible But I would not close the door you and I have opened. We can at least exchange news of our Enemy - and our friends."

Ecthelion nodded. "Yes, I would welcome that. But why should my son prove any friendlier to your kinsmen than to you, my Lord?"

"Because they will not threaten him as I have done.: Aragorn said gently. "They are younger and will be subordinate to him. Nor will they win your favor as I have done."

The old Man bowed his head. "I have been a fool." he said quietly. "I never realized how bitter was his jealousy - nor how I fed it unknowingly."

"Give him my place, Ecthelion," the King urged softly, "confide in him as you have confided in me, let him see the love and trust you have for him."

"I will." the Steward promised, himself as well as Aragorn. "But before you leave us, my King and Captain, I would ask of you one last service - for Gondor."

"Anything." Aragorn said sincerely.

Ecthelion smiled. "Destroy the fleet of Umbar."

--

NOTES:

'Thorongil' has been arguing for such an attack for donkey's years and always been refused. Ecthelion is giving him a sort of good-bye present by consenting to the attack now.


	26. The Departure of Thorongil

Imrahil took Thorongil's usual seat near the foot of the long council table. The Lord Steward, Imrahil's father Adrahil, and the other councilors looked at him in some surprise doubtless wondering where the Captain was. So did Imrahil, and he wondered even more why Thorongil had chosen this moment above all others to vanish back into the mists from which he had come.

The Steward, seeing his nervousness smiled kindly. "Well, Imrahil? sailor's gossip says the attack was a great success but we would hear the details."

"We were fortunate beyond our wildest hopes." the young Prince answered. "We attacked by night and took them by complete surprise.

"How so?" Adrahil asked puzzled, "their scout ships and watch towers should have given them warning."

Imrahil shook his head. "They did not see us, we were covered by a sea fog once we passed out of our own waters."

There was a moment's silence as the councilors exchanged glances. Imrahil knew what they were thinking, he thought the same. It was not the whim of Osse that had concealed them from unfriendly eyes but Thorongil's will. Though how he could have accomplished such a thing none of them could say. Except perhaps the Lord Steward, who seemed the least surprised of them all.

"The harbor was full of ships," Imrahil continued, "not just the usual coastal raiders but monstrous diremes and triremes."

There was another stir among the councilors. Such ships could only have been intended for a large scale attack on Gondor's ports, perhaps even a seaborne invasion of the kingdom. Gondor might have suffered bitterly had the Steward had not finally relented and allowed Thorongil to make the attack he'd argued for, for so long.

"The fleet," a grandiose name for two or three squadrons of small ships, "separated upon entering the harbor and attacked simultaneously at many points. The confusion was great and the Umbarmen were unable to organize any real defense.

"The Captain himself landed on the quays of the City and put the shipyards to the torch." Imrahil swallowed, trying not to remember that inferno of tarred timber and the screams of the wretches trapped within it. "We were caught on the quays by the Captain of the Haven and his guard but we bested them. Thorongil himself slew the Black Captain."

"We withdrew before dawn; the greater part of the Umbar fleet, including all the great ships, was utterly destroyed, as were the shipyards. Our own losses were incredibly light, perhaps fifty Men all told out of twelve hundred. Of course there were many more wounded but they are expected to recover."

"It is wonderful." Adrahil said, shaking his head. "Once again Thorongil has performed miracles. But where is he? Why has he not come himself to make report?" a look of sudden alarm flashed over his face. "Say not that he is wounded!"

"He was unharmed," Imrahil said quietly, "but he has left us." A movement of consternation stirred the councilors, excepting only the Lord Steward and his son. Imrahil was instantly certain his news was no news at all to them. "He returned with us to Pelargir, saw the fleet disbanded and the Men paid. Only after all was done did he tell us he was not going back to Minas Tirith. We argued with him, pleaded, but he would not be moved." he looked at the Steward. "The Captain sent you a message, my Lord; "Other tasks now call me, Lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate."

Ecthelion nodded impassively. He had expected this. Perhaps he even knew what these mysterious tasks were and who had summoned Thorongil back to them.

"Is it known where he went?" asked Narcil of Anorien.

"Yes, my Lord." Imrahil answered reluctantly. "He took a boat across the Anduin and on the farther shore said his final farewell to those of us who had accompanied him. And then - he just walked away into the wilds, his face towards the Mountains of Shadow!"

That had distressed Imrahil, and all of them, above all. It was impossible to believe any evil of Thorongil but why, why had he gone eastward, towards the Enemy? The councilors were equally perturbed, breaking into little murmurs of consternation. Imrahil bristled, wanting to defend his Captain from their suspicions, but how?

Incredibly it was the Lord Denethor who found a simple answer to the puzzle. "I see no evil in that," he said, "no doubt Thorongil merely wishes to say farewell to his officers among the Rangers."

The Lord Steward gave his son a look of unconcealed gratitude and every face showed relief. Even Imrahil felt better. Of course, he should have thought of that himself. He felt a sudden impulse of friendliness towards Denethor. It was generous of him to do justice to a Man he'd always regarded as a rival and a foe.

--

Ecthelion was similarly impressed. "That was good of you, son." he said quietly as they walked away together from the council chamber.

Denethor grimaced a little. "Not really. You and I both know that Thorongil cannot possibly be in league with the Dark Lord. I would not have our people waste their energies on unnecessary fears."

"That too was a good thought." said Ecthelion. "Denethor, I will be needing a new Captain of the Citadel, would you accept the post?"

The son looked at his father in amazement. "Me?"

"Who else?" The Steward asked simply. "I need a Man I can trust completely in that place."

Denethor's eyes filled with tears that he was hard pressed not to let fall. It was true then, Thorongil and Thorongil alone had stood between them. Now he was gone all would be as it should be between him and his father.

"Of course, sir, if you wish it." he said when he had mastered himself. "But what of my present post as Captain of the Marches?"

"I think it would be best if you continue to hold that title as well." Ecthelion replied. "Lieutenants can perform the actual duties - under your command of course."

Denethor frowned. "Who?" It seemed to him his father's sidelong glance held a touch of apprehension.

"I have some Men in mind."

--

His nephew Hurin was a romantic young idiot Denethor thought grimly. Still, it would be as well to learn as much as they could about these raggle-tailed northern kinsmen of theirs, especially if their chiefs still harbored notions of claiming Gondor's throne. And Denethor found himself, rather reluctantly, thinking the better of Thorongil as well. At least he had left hostages for Hurin's safety rather than relying on Ecthelion's besotted confidence in his bare word.

Denethor gazed without friendliness at the twins, young Men with Thorongil's look and bearing, standing quietly before his father's writing table. They were dressed in simple black, each with a many pointed silver star pinning his cloak at the shoulder. These at least could harbor no kingly ambitions being kin to the Royal line only on the distaff side! But there sat Ecthelion, looking to his son for support and council. For his father's sake Denethor forced himself to speak courteously:

"If you are willing to serve as your uncle did you are more then welcome."

"Most willing. Mordor is the enemy of all Men." said one twin.

"We have been trained as Rangers and scouts," said the other, "and trust we may make ourselves useful to you, Lord Denethor."

"I doubt not but you will." Denethor said graciously, trying to hide his inward exultation. This pair would be under his orders, not equals - and never rivals. He would see to that! "By what names will you be known?"

"Mormegil." said the Steward before either twin could answer. "Mormegil and Morandir."

All three young Men looked at him startled, then the two Northerners bowed. "As you wish."

'Black Sword' and 'Dark Wanderer', Denethor reflected, suitable enough names. Men were always coming from the provinces and beyond to take service in the White City. There was no reason why these two should ever be connected in Men's minds with Thorongil. Denethor meant to keep them out on the marches where they'd useful and harmless and completely unknown.

--

No sooner had the twins been dismissed then they found themselves called back again, this time to face Ecthelion alone.

"Why did the Lord Aragorn turn east?" he demanded.

Ellenion - Morandir - smiled. "Your son had the right of it, my Lord - at least in part. Uncle has gone to tell our watchers on the Black Gate that he is leaving Gondor and future reports must be sent elswhere."

Ecthelion frowned. "You keep a watch on the Morannon?"

"Gondor is not Mordor's only enemy." Ereinion, now Mormegil, answered. "We too have some interest in the doings of the Dark Lord."

Ecthelion cocked his head thoughtfully. "How many other watchers has my Lord Aragorn set - and where?" The two young Men exchanged an uneasy look and he smiled reassuringly. "You need not answer that. I am only thinking out loud as old Men do." his eye strayed to the eastern window, smile vanishing.

"I shall miss him."


End file.
